The New Yorker

Great and high.
As powerful as life.
Stalwart as mountain walls.
Taller than ancient oaks, so very tall
Yet tender in its heart,
Tender and compassionate
But mighty all the same

Reflections …
See and know brother man
Thru the mirror of his city.
Varied as man’s emotions; built to glorify his conquests,
Meek as his meekest, as forward as his boldest,
His city reflects hopes and desires
With hazy pictures –

Surging with powers.
Oh, the smell of eagerness is here,
Here in the city that is a monument to man,
Here, where the fiery frays of a thousand hearts find common peace,
Here where some find eternal war,
Where all is done to build,
Build to the very sky –

Fury of hell.
Fury on the face of it.
Fury ‘neath the false surface of it.
Fury, why torture those who seek their peace within my city?
Do you show the mercy that we crave?
Naught but terror do you breed,
You spread what we despise.

Yes, my city, you are a cauldron.
You are a cauldron of the world I love,
You blend the emotions I merge within myself,
You speak the truths I dare not speak,
You weave the fabric of my being,
You churn the butter of my heart,
You know all of me, all my soul,
Why can you not speak to me?
And tell me what I am?
Cauldron, please?