City

Where are the people?
All I see are pockets of ambition
Stuffed into skin
Like o'erripe fruit

On a rotten tree.
A city of cathedrals raised in praise
Of avarice
And petty sin;

Acrimonius
with Filthy crowds; Eyes-faces turned inwards,
And lids shuttered
To deny me

Fair audience. Look!
A city hollowed within, caulked without
By the grit and
Glitter of wealth.

arjun r narayanswamy

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