The sound of rustling leaves

In the chilly night of November

When the snow has not yet fallen

But the promise of winter in the trees

I walk

Thru the streets of this great city

Slumbering and waking

I hear

The sounds of families

Laughing and fighting

I smell

The last embers of kitchens

Up and down the avenues

This is the city of the hungry

I've written to ease my pain; I've written to hear my voice; I've written for vanity; I've written for sanity; I've written for fun; I've written for laughs; I've written for me; I've written for money. But until I write for God, this talent is for naught.