in the carrion soup bowl of the city
drowning in the hell of other people’s poetry
amidst the sickly starburst shine of roadside diamonds
lies the sad littleness of long missed opportunities
the broom swept piles of shards of dreams
houses built without foundations
relentless engines fuelled with blood and tears
the folded, folded, folded paper hearts
corroding bodies and shackled hands
the dried and withered cast off skins
the rasping tongues and bitter taste
defeated minds and crumpled faces
the gasping, wheezing, wasted stagger
in worn out shoes with bleeding feet
the fall from grace
the race
that never ever
seems to end