the vacant city

When I was living for a short time in Toronto, I had an experience that shook me to my core. It was winter. Snow lay thick, like a blanket over everything. It was late. The yellow street lights buzzed out a drone. Hypnotically, the snow fell in time, stark against the dark sky. There was no wind. Indeed, nothing seemed to move. No cars drove down the usually busy street. Every window was blacked out, as if no one lived inside at all. The houses themselves seemed to be the only inhabitants of the neighbourhood. I had the strangest feeling of isolation, as if I was the only human alive. I wished to call out to those I loved, and rekindle the fires I had let die. This experience spawned a poem.

the vacant city
doran damon okkema

deserted streets call my name
my steps end at the sidewalk
a city full of empty houses
and i stand on my corner, alone

i miss the days we cared
the days we loved
when we still had faces
and called eachother by our names

now we, like so many nameless streets
whithout purpose or direction
lead to no foreseeable end
and the beginning is forgotten with the rest