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a city born of sirens
dances in the rain;

puddles in pavement reflecting neon signs
look like millions of spider eyes
staring, unflinching,
at the sky;

hungry or asleep
dead or alive
the city’s eyes
always look the same.

strange figures stalk crooked streets
tapping the concrete with their canes,
messages in Morse code
calling out to each other
“stay the hell away”;

a horn blows somewhere
far outside the city
as black ships glide soundlessly
into the bay.

the accountant next door went crazy
trying to balance ledgers in a business
where no number can quantify
the prices people pay;

bonfire on the docks
wild women dance
silhouetted like demons
against the flame;

white crows fly the night sky;

laughing, cherubic men in crisp new suits
sniff drain pipes,

and everything is well
and everything is good
and I’m just grateful to be witness

as the sirens carve another night
out of the city’s heart.

Written by

I’m not in the Matrix. I AM the Matrix.

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