Poetictunes Dec 2015
My city is cold,
The people are cold.
The weather is cold too.
But, when the seasons change,
The city will no longer remain cold,
But, the people will.
There's twenty five million people in the city tonight
They each breathe fire, like flames they ignite
They're a city of saints, they're monsters, they're warriors born to fight
Although diverse, their hearts beat in time to the city of lights
It was golden and splendid,                                                      
That City of light;                                                            
A vision suspended                                                              
In deeps of the night;                                                        
A region of wonder and glory, whose temples were marble and white.              
                                                                              
I remember the season                                                            
It dawn'd on my gaze;                                                          
The mad time of unreason,                                                        
The brain-numbing days                                                        
When Winter, white-sheeted and ghastly, stalks onward to torture and craze.      
                                                                              
More lovely than Zion                                                            
It shone in the sky                                                            
When the beams of Orion                                                          
Beclouded my eye,                                                              
Bringing sleep that was filled with dim mem'ries of moments obscure and gone by.
                                                                              
Its mansions were stately,                                                      
With carvings made fair,                                                      
Each rising sedately                                                            
On terraces rare,                                                              
And the gardens were fragrant and bright with strange miracles blossoming there.
                                                                              
The avenues lur'd me                                                            
With vistas sublime;                                                          
Tall arches assur'd me                                                          
That once on a time                                                            
I had wander'd in rapture beneath them, and bask'd in the Halcyon clime.        
                                                                              
On the plazas were standing                                                      
A sculptur'd array;                                                            
Long bearded, commanding,                                                        
rave men in their day—                                                        
But one stood dismantled and broken, its bearded face battered away.            
                                                                              
In that city effulgent                                                          
No mortal I saw,                                                              
But my fancy, indulgent                                                          
To memory's law,                                                              
Linger'd long on the forms in the plazas, and eyed their stone features with    
awe.                                                                            
                                                                              
I fann'd the faint ember                                                        
That glow'd in my mind,                                                        
And strove to remember                                                          
The aeons behind;                                                 &
Dellawhere Apr 2014
You are the city
I am trying to get back into nature. Your bright lights beckon me back-
But your pollution is killing me
City officials refuse to address the problem
Even when I write up a
petition and policy
to highlight the issues- I am ignored. There are natural bright lights in nature
- the ones I miss-
life with fresh air is positivity.
It's my fault I allowed the city
to become polluted.
Gracie Pickard April 19,2014
Your lips tasted
like the stars
i never got to see
because of the cities
bright lights.
And once our lips connected,
Meteors fell down to earth,
And the ground beneath us started crumbling.
For it was the end of the beginning,
And I couldn't have been more un-afraid.
a lion out of the plains would be sick
walking tall in a marsh
with mud in his pretty mane?
no i don't think so.
fighter in the wrong land
fury in the wrong fist
turned inwards instead of to the wildebeest
cloven hooves at his ass
instead of teeth at their throats
proud proud lion
never be a gangster here
pull up that saggy skin and face the facts
you're in the wrong town now, kitten
more about me feeling wholly  out of place, though this one is delivered  with a more upbeat tone.
Lani Foronda Jun 2014
These city lights don't do you justice.
I swear that smile of yours
Lights up my night brighter than anything
Ever could.
October04,2013
NewAgeOfAnarchy Oct 2014
They say, Nero sang has Rome burned.
Now I understand why, there is something so magical about a majestic city be destroyed by it's own foolishness
©2014 copyright Michael Cross
Anshita Mehrotra Sep 2015
i called him my city
and so
before our door closed shut,
he asked me one thing
why?;
"it is nothing close to the countryside" i said
"polluted,overpopulated
-filled with wretched souls and dingy structures
dusty air and noisy traffic
and yet;
ill always call it home"
Dreams of Sepia Sep 2015
A harbor town, just like this one, swept up in fog
the seagulls, ghosts emerging from the skies

the river glistens soft & wide,
the Cranes for now are sleeping giants

he kisses her, the anxious gun pressed tight
against his hand in his pocket

he is a dock worker
she is a seamstress

they're a black & white film
because technicolor here is impossible

he is you & she is me
we speak only in French

the kids on the block
will get you the next day.
I live in a harbor town & it means I always have fog & 1930's french movies on my mind...
Anna McNutt May 2014
It’s a postcard city,
With red trams,
And blue bikes,
The sweet smell of tea,
Or some other form of herbal gratification,
Colorful wooden tulips,
And record stores with ancient walls.
On my trip in Holland.
pixels Sep 2012
lightning bolt earrings;
bangles jangle on dark wrists:
an urban Gypsy.
Graff1980 Dec 2014
The sidewalk crow
Picking at the stone
Like the streets were still his home
Nibbling at this mess
Of concrete flesh
Gasping and rasping
To catch a smog-less breath
Black thing shimmering
In the sweltering city heat
No worms to eat
Because he can’t crack
That grey concrete
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