When I think this city I think empty trams, empty seats,
steady hands, steady feet, stolen land, stolen fee,
Never feeling free, always feeling eyes watching me,
Disguised democracy, fake economy, no apologies,
Squandering property, cement towers nature’s mockery,
Tyrannical monarchy and material authority
Never stopping me from constantly traversing the city
Thirsting with intrigue conversing and dispersing earnest mystique,
Streets aren’t pristine: imperfections are the blitzkrieg
Prestigious soliloquies of ominous liberty
Offered by imagery of trapped sidewalks across the map,
Stride forth my back attached to a packed nap sack.
Cramped with stacks of bricks: chipped cracked and dented.
Paths: skipped tracked and ventured. The lasting gift that beckons
Presence remembered, endless adventure treading
Dimensions spreading and collecting
so the severance of heaven is mending
This journey I’m accepting through eager alleyways
Find a secret passage paved behind reality’s barricade
Free from the masquerade, souls lost no accomplices
Coveting confidence collagen blocking their oxygen
Clotting the bottom of competence in this rotten metropolis
Modern apocalypse where we cotton pick novices
With pocketed politics into dominant covetous lobbyists
Forgotten with sin, lost by kin, but beauty still exists within
© KIERON DONALD BYATT
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