The city comes alive,
Even on nights
That are meant to be quiet,
The nights with the darkest skies –
And yet the city thrives,
Glowing and vibrant
In its own lights.
But even then,
Amidst the forced revelry,
There are those,
Who exist quietly,
And unapologetically so.

The canvas isn’t uniform,
In how its rendered
By the various artists,
Who have a go
At painting life
Onto it.
For every dash of colour,
There is a white patch of snow,
And a dark blob
Of the dullest grey,
Perhaps unwelcome,
And yet nevertheless,
Unapologetically there.