The setting sun dips her rosy fingers
Between the staggered gaps
Of glass-grey skyscrapers
That blink open with eyes of technological light.
As night falls, windows show the silhouettes of people
Half-asleep
Their minds sleeping beneath
The mounds of content
Entertainment, literature, actions echoed by fiction and real-life television
The glorified picture of what we could be
In our imagination.
Trace the constellation
Of human electricity
From the darkness of space
A flickering gold web
Will show information moving at the speed of light
Mimicking the mortal life
At the stove, at the desk, in bed
Until media wraps a blanket around the hive mind
Half-asleep at twilight
Half-awake, watching
Something.
If not creating, then at least, there is no bleeding
The sweat and tears
That waltzes on midnight rooftops
Slowly
Unconsciously
Entertaining the masses.
YOU ARE READING
Cement City
PoetryHow to capture it all? I was no photographer My paint brushes, I have retired And words simply do not belong On a cover The same way they fit In my mouth, or march along the surface Of these pages. How to capture it all? The sounds, the smells, the...