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In the crevices of a tired town,
roaches scuttle under moonlit sighs,
their dinky bodies torn by shadows 
that shroud the crumbling edges of life.

A cat lounges, indifferent,
its gaze halfway between hunger and apathy,
as food spills—moldy bread,
booze-slicked whispers lingering as lost dreams. 
Vomit pools near the park bench,
an unintended homage to a night forgotten.

Sunlight spills through broken glass,
pools of honey on asphalt,
while aged men clasp fading cigars,
holding tight to the currency of days gone,
counted as bushels of dusty grapes 
in barrels marked with decay and neglect.

Children splash in muddy puddles,
dancing, uninformed, on the thin line of bliss— 
spinning in the rain, tossing laughter into 
the weighty air thick with grime. 
But right above their naive joy,
the eagles circle with grim resolve,
the swan’s elegance a mask for the rot underneath,
beckoning beauty that etched itself onto 
the surface of our gazes, utterly unaware. 

Beneath the town's veneer— 
layers of dance and jam that sweeten our lives— 
whispers slink through crumbling walls,
a cacophony of forgotten nights,
the bodies of guilt gnashing and roaming,
gripped tight in the grip of illusion: 
power squeezed from crumpled hearts,
self-importance cutting deep into what we portray. 

Shaking bars containing not just monkeys,
but each of us—segregated, fenced in,
by money and mirage, while fires rage,
bombs bounce upon Earth's crust 
as ghosts mocking our waning cries— 
the real walls we accolade now crumpled 
beneath the weight of indifference. 

Yet, life lingers. Cells squirm and shimmer
pulsing deeply as a show below a plush panel
grimy gasps gliding from gaping grins
chronicles of clockwork tucked within the canvas
resonating reflections of broken beings
whispers weaving tales wandering in waning light
every thread thrashed by the tension of being
stretched slender beneath the straining sky. 

In these moments, reality beckons,
an invitation etched in every falling tear,
to recognize the tangled histories we weave,
where innocence fades beneath barren years 
and interconnected fates find voices 
in jam-stained songs of toil and toil,
groaning beneath the flood tide 
of what seems too dark to acknowledge,
and the sun that chooses to rise each day 
over decayed dreams, now stained and full,
holding us together as we grapple, but maybe— 
maybe—crack ajar a vineyard of hope.
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