Morning poem

At peak time, the streets
are filled with a continuous
the wake of a moving human.
They are everywhere along the
down the street
as the living dead
Lana. It is a work in progress
the journey tomorrow.
I have a room
space at night a friend tea.
Still, it's the feeling of another
from landing on my side
to sleep, there is only a pipe dream.

Moderate winter while it translates
just inside his coat,
and Mother Nature to lose
all management discipline.
Begins with the port of snow all
covering,
from the gracious comfort him.

Every morning there is a return
their roots,
from the same word flood
while you make a new poem.
So easy it is to rotate the roads
those worn rhymes,
to make them a new order.
They are the new old stories.

Who is among your own
story, I even
perhaps at the request of the poem do?