Starbuck Island in modern Troy demanded peace.
Quicksand tilted skyscrapers to the brackish waters of the Hudson.
Flowing back to their home in New York, the kingdom ruled by new twisted accents and yellow taxies.
Farmer trying to plant some cherries, apples, Starbuck refuses to lend a piece of land or peace at all.
Frogs, mosquitoes, leafy high weeds are growing exponentially dancing along with the cold Canadian winds, nature neither borders nor awaits explanations.
The people of Troy, breathe a mixture of air unrecognized to human’s interpretation.
A New Yorker and a Troyan meet halfway in Kingston and are staring at the late red light to turn green, to turn something, because the kingdom doesn’t like to wait along the Yellow Taxies, you might lose your chance to get somewhere, to live a life.
Next time I might take a yellow taxi to blend in, to disconnect my emotions from being stuck, somebody else will do the work for me, while I do my work for somebody else.
Early Birds passing by, water birds, long legs, fine wings, some pink and purple touch in…
