Modern syllabic poem 5/6 with caesura.

The sky lets go now — I step into the woosh,
boots kiss the puddles — soft echoes follow close.
The wind hums low tunes — and trees begin to sway,
each drop a drumbeat — tapping on open skin.

Streetlights blur to gold — halos in the mist grow,
fog wraps around me — a cloak of drifting breath.
I move through gray songs — stitched in silver rhythms,
feet finding silence — deeper than the storm’s noise.