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Brooklyn Grey
Grey tears through grey car door windows;
the rain splashes patterns against the clear glass, and I contemplate.
Streaming down like silent tones reflecting my inner emotions.
The tap tap tapping of drizzle falling dead on the window, like the pulsating beat of my blood spinning dizzyingly through my vacant cerebellum.
What does that mean? Hollow, echo, alone.
My soul casts a reflection on that silent window and I stare back.
It’s always grey rain on the turnpike as we drive towards Brooklyn.
Brooklyn can be grey like
Brooklyn can be grey like London or Amsterdam and I think that's a good thing.