Six-Eight

To leave my glassy shell And wander ‘twixt the verdant hills Only to gaze at the industrial city as it spills. Over this once quiet landscape, Now choked with bitumen black roads and luminous eyes which keep vigils and forebode. The skies licked by sound and smoke Staring down at the shuffle of ill-proportioned buildings amidst a sea of compounding unknown things. To walk down the narrowing alleys and breathe and smell the stagnant vapour; Watching the walls crumple like old letter paper. The street lamps like black spears; upright and joyless. With lights that cast shadows like dancing daemons Disappearing at the sight of the early mornings; Dawn. This has always been and always will be.

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