A city was raised.
I thought to build the streets.
My dreams reached high, I set the bones to stack
My paths, the blocks are set and empty
For my half-thought smog.
And now, in dreams we found no dust
-but these walls are too thick for such liquids.
So the dust will gather;
A gauge of my grinding voice and shaking hands.
An iron jaw cracks a chalky brain
On a sandy skull.
And what starts as a fog gathers dew
And then bleeds from each pore
What the air can brush open-
With mine, I’ll then paint my flashbacks to the floor
With mirrors in the corner.
My city was made.
I dreamed to crush the streets plagued with ghosts
Their graves reached high, as I sank in mine.
I stacked my bones to set the stage
And I shrieked as the smog blew away.
And now, in screams, I see my face.
On a marble shard from the dust pressed arch that I dreamt.
And now we know, my dreams are dry.
My hopes are too hard
And my walls are too smooth.
And now there’s no grooves for your liquid.