Buzzing Among Glass

Beneath the neons, the track pulsates; the metro sleeps.
A slumbering forest rests on polished glass panes.
Steel roots embrace the passersby; voices sink low.
The hum is a breath of leaves dampened by the chill.
The doors glide open, insect eyes returning to the world.
Each station is sap flowing through the pipes.
Lights flicker like fireflies across the signs.
A coarse draft sweeps through the city’s capillaries.
The sound sheds roots upon the concrete, a map of shadows.
The seats are bark where the people repose.
Voices dip low, like velvet cloth for the ear.
Time knots itself within a cushion of glass.
On arrival, the forest stirs, a breath through the footsteps.
The car empties out like a glade at dawn’s light.
We, iron seeds, drift through vendors and dreams.
The city breathes out softly, leaving the scent of rain and steel.