In this city, the old and their young,
they crawl. Towards skyscrapers
of paper and against gravel,
into tired, fibrous cracks.

They rumble against light,
crumbling through the grounds.
They flow and waddle,
pooling about the mouth

of a blocked drain.
They grumble in a fetid soup
among discarded pulp 
and papers stained with ink.

Vapors envelope them,
like hope. This way -
this way and only this way -
they're in those skyscrapers.



Bubbling Joy In Barcelona

Sycophany/ Self-preservation

Romance of the two wisdom teeth

Art Appreciation 101