City

Words scrawled in white,
red brick walls 
as canvas, angles
of cheap, old buildings
cut shapes in 
the overcast sky.

Plastic windows
magnify struggling 
mornings light,
empty billboards 
reflect struggling 
mourners plight.

Mourning the loss 
of their childlike 
innocence to the
words within the
free paper, warning of
groping presidents in hoping. 

The skies are scraped,
the gutters are full,
lives are lived in boxes
with balconies that
overlook passing trains
carrying faceless pain. 

Church spires overgrown
by bland rectangles
housing rows of 
computers holding
spreadsheets created 
by rows of commuters.

Cameras capture every step 
to protect and to incriminate, 
whilst change rattles pockets
and we pretend our eyes aren't
in their sockets when sleepers
on the streets offer up their hands.

Offer up my hands in 
prayer to a God that
I don't believe in,
the only creator 
of these faded concrete 
stalagmites is us.