trees grow in a dying forest
sucking life out of death
a tree grows slowly in moscow
living off of angels and their breath
lonely drivers sink back in their seats
and clench the wheel that they steer
they gaze and sigh into their left view mirror
cause objects may be closer than they appear
the sound of breathing echoes from the roofs
of hospitals that were never built
just like the footsteps of a dying patient's nurse
and the bedside flowers that refuse to wilt
I walk down to Pacific Avenue
Just to get lost in the crowd
smoking a cigarette and passing by
contemplating what this life should be about