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Rated: · Poetry · Community · #1823003
Something I started about the Big Apple. It's not really a poem?
New York City.

A swamp of steel and glass. Brick monsters thrust into the sky. Spots of green blemish the landscape, until a chunk of foliage interrupts the throng of black and grey. Cars, one by one, line these streets. A storm of sirens, chatter and horns – shouts, yells, laughter, anger. Rain falls and puddles form in the crevices of these worn sidewalks. Pink and blue flashes reflect on the droplets, “dine here” roars the blinking sign. On and on it goes. Trucks, cabs, buses... like ants moving onwards across the Brooklyn Bridge. Night falls and lights burst into life. A skyline of noise and dazzle. A city that never sleeps.
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