They scar the country with prejudice, not paradise,
oblivious to the currents that light the evening skies
Stone monuments sometimes of steel,
cold and perverse—they climb and steal the very light of day
The dandelions, they claim the prize that line the street
and gutter ways—the cement fields of want and play
Bricks of orange and of red consort with peeling wood
that’s dead—a haven for the pests that stay
and share this metropolitan today
and in convenience vibrato do we hear
the noise that’s softly playing in our structured ears.
Monoliths that pierce the skies with their heads
they sigh and cry—peering through the hazy fog
that won’t hide them—not at all
and discipline is out of line, corrupting the senses
of the mind—making us wish that there was time
to move away from here.