Astoria

The colours of the past were dripping, uncovering who we are, the nights that I was cased in the arms of Astoria. And standing on the Fulton riverside, all of my life seemed to me like the lights out on the water; lonely notes of clarity. But didn’t they shine? With the last tide, I will be there. And in the half-light, my eyes will see then. Nothing in this world was far enough that mattered to me at all; but then, I was blinded by the lights of Astoria. And didn’t they shine? Didn’t they shine?

Submitted by johnmansley — Apr 26, 2025