Oh so hard

I see the inspiration,
See it played by the wind.
But I cannot feel it.
What good is a tool
If its use cannot be found?
Endless movement with nothing to show,
Ideas that flicker without substance.

The city

The air hung thick and dead, casting a grey shadow over the whole face of the city. Everything was broken. The occupants of the city, numb from constant terror, shuffled through the streets, stopping from time to time to push wreckage of homes, splintered beams and broken armchairs to the curb. Every home had been emptied, shaken upside down in a comic gesture, leaving the detritus of everyday life to form the new texture of the urban surface. The topography of the city had been upended as if with one rolling convulsion. Old landmarks were forgotten, erased, and in their place new fantastical sights had been erected.