The Dreamer’s City- Hartford, CT

Beneath the tower’s silent gaze,
where whispered light in glass is caught,
a child’s hands the embers raise—
or are they fireflies, or thought?
The streets stretch long, the air is thin,
a hush between the world and sin.

Upon the bridge of tarnished time,
where hours pause in bitter rust,
a clock stands still—its hands, it's chime,
its face is veiled in smogged dust.
The travelers below move on, unknowing,
toward a fate of their own sowing.

And at the city's iron throat,
two banners writhe against the sky,
one proud where the barristers gloat,
one pale and tattered, frayed and shy.
The glass towers rise, the wind grows bolder,
the dream is spent—the night comes closer.