1.
Towers split the clouds—
no one waves from the windows.
Still, we all look up.
2.
A doorman stands still.
He opens a gold-edged world
he’ll never step in.
3.
Sixty stories high,
a dining table waits clean—
years without a meal.
4.
Central Park below,
green framed like a painting hung
for someone not there.
5.
Lights flicker at dusk—
no laughter, no shadows move.
Just proof that it’s owned.
6.
Elevators sigh,
their silver doors never open
for those on the street.
7.
Rain glosses the glass.
It falls on me and the stone—
the towers don’t feel.
8.
Air is different here—
thin, polished, and expensive.
I still breathe it in.
9.
A pigeon perches
on the edge of their kingdom—
wiser than they know.
10.
Lobbies without noise,
staff in gloves, rugs without dust—
still emptier lives.
11.
Clouds touch their rooftops,
but can’t warm the penthouses.
Even sun feels far.
12.
A child asks, “Who lives
up there?” Her father just shrugs—
“No one, most the time.”
13.
Reflections shimmer
in windows that hold no life—
a skyline asleep.
14.
Outside Nordstrom’s door,
a man strums blues on the curb—
towers hum nothing.
15.
Security nods,
eyeing those who don’t belong—
even our gaze must pay.
16.
Glass walls hold the moon
perfectly, as if it’s theirs—
it still shines for us.
17.
A crane swings its load
like a pendulum of wealth—
time loops for the rich.
18.
No curtains drawn here.
Privacy is what you buy
when no one’s watching.
19.
Delivery men
vanish into chrome silence—
they leave, unheard still.
20.
So high above pain,
they forget the street has cracks—
we trip on truth here.
21.
The night stretches long.
Penthouse lights never flicker—
what could keep them warm?
22.
He points to the top.
Says “One day.” I ask him why—
he just keeps walking.
23.
A doorman exhales—
he’s watched decades disappear
behind those locked walls.
24.
From Central Park West,
the buildings look like teeth—sharp,
guarding silent mouths.
25.
They built these to last—
but stone forgets who owned it.
So does the city.
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