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Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #1542637
Sometimes the City owns the ones that walk upon it
Burnt smoke rises off hot dog stands of abysmal calling.
Dark leaches crawl out from sewers caps made of gold.
Tongues of lashings flow above metal castles stretched to the sky.
All in fear of some burning lust of cold payment beneath their feet.

Horns blare like snarled tooth tigers in a mist of wind swept smog.
Tires burn as they screech under tin can autos.
Loafers tap among greased palmed tar.
High heels clap against metal staired high rises.

Trees grow amid soup like clouds.
Rats crawl beneath black-bagged refuse.
Money falls under old time bells.
Parades march amidst clap-tranced patrons.

Ties swing atop paper filled desks.
Blouses ruffle in between crowed elevator stances.
Phones ring attuned to trance like glances.
Files slam across carpet bound hallways.

Hearts beat stretched over silk stained sheets.
Pigeons cry among seed filled parks.
Vagrants shiver atop cold wooden benches.
Cities die amidst human filled stenches.
© Copyright 2009 Trent Cross (trentcross at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1542637-The-City