The Flatiron by Edward Steichen

Men glide like ghosts,

Blending into the shadows

Of a darkened world.


The rain-laden air was palpable,

Heavy on the tongue and 

Dampening the hair and

Leaving cool droplets on the skin.


That tall, tall building,

So foreboding in stature;

How was it made

To so resemble an anvil,

Separating the rushing crowds

In the near-darkness

Ever elegantly?


The desparate branches,

So choked by blackness,

Grasped the sky,

Yearning to capture the 

Brightening rays of the

Predawn sun.

This poem is about: 
My country


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