We all dream of <br />what we are not. <br /> <br /> <br />Buffalo dreams of being <br />a gracefully aging geisha <br />dancing for a samurai lover. <br /> <br /> <br />A city once a volcano <br />erupting with wealth and culture <br />was catapaulted into the abyss <br />with the dawn of the Information Age. <br /> <br /> <br />Buffalo is now made of rust and <br />spider webs, of gently festering <br />purgatory gray days, <br />of the slow whistling of ghosts. <br /> <br /> <br />There is no now now <br />in Buffalo. <br /> <br /> <br />There, history is written by assassins. <br />The past is always watching. <br />The past is not a shadow, but a mountain. <br /> <br /> <br />The ache of history makes everything <br />heavy and slow. <br />Nostalgia is the secular religion, <br />memories the only prizes awarded <br />for atrophied lives.<br /><br />David Kowalczyk<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-music-on-a-cold-dark-afternoon/
