I miss my city: Seattle poetry on the bus

This is an old poem I wrote, last summer, while riding the bus through my neighborhood.

The city has eyes
It watches our tries, our failures
It commends our success
The moss and vines crawl up to the skies;
Hanging onto freeway walls
And buildings reaching for the hazy sky
Leaves fall from autumn trees
Litter the sidewalks and streets;
With a crunching cacaphony of crackles
Weeds rise up from mowed grass
And sway their yellow dandelion dance
Chipped cement clutters a street
The roads are lined with cracks telling a story like wrinkles on a face
Navy blue, buttermilk yellow, teal and jet black houses line the neighborhood streets
An old VW Van stands like the bones of an animal, as moss and mildew tint the windows green; and rust decays its decrepit scene
Blackberry brambles conquer yards and hide shards of of broken bottles and decaying trash
Pinecones dot a drivway; overhanging with wild branches of evergreens
Paint chips fleck from a picket fence
A lake overgrown with trees and plants; ducks sway in the murkey waters they lay
A man pulls shingles from a church roof
And I sigh at all the beauty, as my bus pulls to a stop

Starphyre's Poetry: Family

What is a city, but a distraction? A quick interaction between millions of faces, but a only a fraction will be the friends we have attraction, like magnets among tin, the connection is slim; the odds are grim, we touch bases not as a friend; but a number in a grid...
I rid myself of numbers, and now I am left with only family, and nothing is as we planned it to be.
We soon see, that even a few of you and me; is friction and discord, but without each other disconnection is our only story, and how many stories can one man tell of hermatage in a cell; and to who will he recite his deeds but to a wall, and his reflection in a well.