by Sian Latham
Walking down streets,
Black and gold,
Lights reflect in windows, closed,
Watching eyes of buildings old.
Upon the glass,
Lace of metal grows.
Twisted shapes formed.
Fixed to brick, row upon row.
Within the patterns,
Stories of forgotten past.
Symbols and creatures.
Into illustrators patterns cast.
On the streets at night,
I walk alone,
Amid the myths of long ago.
Wandering beneath the ageless lights.
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