This city is a grave. I am the gravekeeper, charmless and careless — looking for the next warm body, whichever one might entice this violent disbursement of purest release.
Zombies strolling through the sodden, cement-lined sepulchres, the asphalt trappings we find ourselves as corpses enrobed in.
Shatter concrete, fracture asphalt; these are the tombal bedsheets we draw over tear-stained visages, rain-soaked in despair a thousand, a hundred thousand, a million times over.
Not today — not today, mommy. Don’t lead us to the yawning gravesites just yet. Let us shed the crustened fetters that modernity clasps around our brittle wrists.
This city is a prison. I am the jailkeeper, keyless and clueless — cudgel in hand, blunt as desire candidly divulged, cracking the crown, erupting, Vesuvian, Hellenic. Raw. Beauty.
Buildings are built as platforms to launch from; launch into the Void patiently waiting.
