In a city, future past, and the
streets are cold and clean and flat.
Naught living, none dying, a ghost town, way down the way.
Except.
Except for a lone *** of clay, sitting on the sill, of a cold and sterile building, way up high. And there lies growing a small plant, glowing green and red in the morning sun. Growing, growing,
growing still.
Just a thought rattling in my head begging to come out.