Along the stretch of an alley etched in cracked cobblestone,
Walks a conquered weary swain besides his penumbral casted clone.
Onwards he treads towards the recycled mill of a matted ride,
As calcitrated gravel pebbles are tumbled by his stride.
Beneath his feet the floor is flattened by concrete consecrations,
Created by the curse of a society deified by Earth’s castration.
Sky-scraping towers cloud the city’s canopy with sedentary cement,
Carving corporate demarcations along the trickling trick of rent.
As above the breath is bleached by blotted crumbles of pitiless guilt,
So below the belly balloons with bloated hubris on which its built.
‘Tis but a chore of the harvest’s chattel to maintain the flock with traffic,
Churned in the choking oil slick of a city fracked from finite fabric.
And so the folly of the fickle fellow who fights for matter and finance,
Shall adjourn the chance to find delight in the trance of song and dance.
Copyright © Brendan J. Simons | Year Posted 2018