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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