[A_Perfect_Sonnet]

Rooted In the Air

Ordinarly, nobody thinks twice,
But tonight is an exception, another lurid but enticing episode, in a undescerning section of a city,
That buries it's dead underneath the flow of a harbor's magnificence.
It's such a waste, when they throw white chalk onto the river banks.
There's something lurking underneath the visionary architecture.
They modeled them after titans to bring a little lore into the grandeur, but never quite acheived the glory they had hoped for.
Instead they sit against the skyline, reflecting sunlight, to bring insight to a bustling metropolis and passengers on a train with a dead conductor.
Save the night from wasting it's time on stars to shine, and the energy consumed by constellations that try and scrape the sun.

There was a story, hidden underneath the conquest.
Lost like a grain of sand taken from the beach.

So tonight we feast apon written words, and poetry, that can seem so absurd when you don't look past the surface for the deeper meanings.
Dont confuse them with what you perceive as nothing but meaningless, trite symbology.

Will we ever build them high enough?
They already balance like fragile glass on the tip of a stilt.
There's got to be something, something, a meaning, buried underneath.

The air doesn't hold our roots.

This feeling is so uncentered, wreathed in development, but never quite feeling like we've advanced past clawing our way into another place of business, just to sell out stock.
Society is just another way to seperate the wolves from the herd,
It's an endless hunt,
And I'm running from the pack.
Take away the fangs, and we'd all be in the clear, but the aristocracy has a sway greater than any birthright could bestow.

We're all panning for gold,
We're all sinking for our goals.

We're all panning for gold,
And sinking into the riverbanks.
I know an idea like this can seem so overt,
But after all that strife for a place to sieve,
Most just come up with pyrite.