The rain beats down, staccato rhythm against the roof
The shelter is crowded, breath fogging the windows
as if trying to hide the world outside, a
place the fog has covered in a watercolor haze

Spectral light approaches, a beacon, turning the
city from painting to photograph, if only for some
The rest remain, huddled in quiet unity, lives at
pause until the right light appears,
calling us out of our daydreams

For here, we are safe in our contemplations,
here, we aren't part of the world. Here,
nothing is real and nothing will matter,
the only constant is time