The city is different than other things.
A new texture, with surfaces
That rough sandpaper in diamond-shaped
Apostrophes.
I walked a block with melting salts beneath my step.
The red sea parting between snow banks and students,
Comparing them to apples and oranges.
I’m wearing black.
Invisible leather whips spank my skin.
There is a chill that goes right through me
Into the pretty bones that correct my melancholy,
That lashes into my nakedness, slicing through
With ghostly steel knives, until frigid anatomy
Freezes me into a block of ice.
Near the lake are the effects of life in similarity
Twin souls of wretched faith, whose clipped wings
Wedge between old brick buildings built
Without isolation.
I am isolated
Between the line of reality and dreams.
Too many people crowding the illusion
In this numerous population that tests math
To its fullest quantity.
So many souls wandering without a direction;
The compass and map (both) smashed up
By the anger and frustration of living such a lie.
Yes, the city is different than other things.
But I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Other work by Wilberg:
Today Is My Birthday
