like it wasn't even there at all

an anvil in the sky

proclaimed, one day,

that the city in the frough, fried

would become a sight to the eyes.

So it matched it's creator's ties,
mix matched the hearts and souls of many,
and watched the silly little poor people dance,
too far away to see the look in their eyes.

One day, however rich the city became

the farmers marched forth, from fields and hay

to arrive, from outside, to the center,

where they kept the dreams of their children,

to crash them to the floor. Smiling as the glass shattered.

Smiling as the crowds stopped, to stare at the torch thrown

to poverty, and the torch ignited to the city.