stone

by Ross Vassilev

birdsong in the summer dusk
and I can count the good times
on the fingers
of one hand

looking back
on all the screaming
all the insanity
I often wonder how I made it through
all that

I often go for walks at
this hour with the purple glow coming down
  from the cosmos
but not tonight

I see people walking
drawn by the city lights
and as much as
  the stone image of some God

I am alive.