Cement never moves.
The blackened lines
eat sunlight--
from the cookie jar.

Sweet chariots--
of industrial shades
moving, moving.

Never peering at cement.
The world is a painting,
the ones who move
make their marks.

Stress-burned beings
that run across life
and burn out in agony.

To leave cement
in the skid-marked dust--
of midnight,
crying tears of joy.