The streets are fogged with thoughts unspoken.
Thousands walk the same steps every day,
Heeding touch as their tool
Without any need to say.
The streets are cold.
Some find fear in crowds,
Their heads pushed down to the ground
Not wanting to be loud.
The streets are dimmed.
Colours are not everywhere for some,
Many see in darker tones
Where perhaps they envy those who see plumb.
The streets are black but vibrant in sound.
When sight is lost others emerge,
Patterns of noise moulding paintings
The colour of sound waiting to surge.
Be aware of the difference each of us holds,
and how beautiful it can be.