In This City
In this city,
Sound is silence.
​
Do neon roads forever drone?
Are pillows shaped like traffic cones?
Goodbye quiet night, calm and bright,
Mother’s nature is now Father’s spite.
​
In this city,
Grey is green.
​
Is the Earth harvested too?
Left to rot, a decaying fruit?
Squeezed dry, rolls from tree to bowl;
Even Eve’s apple needs concrete control.
​
In this city,
Light is made.
​
Does mankind feed on yellow stars?
Or collect them in glass jars?
For wherever they go, all are erased,
In an indigo sky without a trace.
​
In this city,
Death is life.
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