Poems

This City

We didn’t build this city on rock ‘n’ roll
We built this city on death,
The slow and muted death of the world.
The bleed.
The cull.
The wipe-out.
Once wet with full-blooded green and now?
Industrial. Now artificial, silicon, skyscraper grey.
Now chilling and cauterized, deadened dead end.
And he saw that it was ruined. And wept.