My city.

The shrouds of the city stood shackled

By the dew spackled avenue

In sheer honest awe of the new.

Who toddled 'cross cobbled rooms,

Held onto greased wheel wells,

In hopes to be propelled, 

But were dragged under.

The spell was an old one, 

That the new ones knew none of.

So now some would be be models,

And some would just rue:

The imagined demons 

Of unrighteous actions

Enacted even before birth.

Whilst whirlwinds of doubting,

Higher pitched than the shouting

Of the shrouds who stood by 

As it spiraled out into the blue

Though soon the firmament corrupted 

By rising ashes of rent checks,

Of firecans and

Infant hopes ascending

In search of some heaven, 

Which nstead made the threat of ghosts

Much more likely.

The key to the obscene

Not revealed so easy,

As to say that perspective

Might liberate the needful.

Indeed it could be helpful

To see night as a blessing

In which the dressings of a spiritual salad

May be lifted, inconspicuous,

Prepared in poor dress 

Under free dressers, 

Under freeways.

Is it easy to believe 

That such masses of sleaze,

Have time to conceive of condiments?

Hardship, 

A relative threat to self management.

Privilege, 

Concerned with the threat,

Of foreign ghosts

Brewed so domestic, 

Obscuring the disconnect.