Bustling streets of blood
With towering teeth of steel and glass
Tearing at their own flesh,
Piece by grimy piece…

But what about before,
The vibrant spaces of quieter times?

There’s little left but bones now –
If you’re lucky.
Others still slog ever forwards,
Carried on by pale ghouls,
Anything real long since lost to dust.

Cemeteries have their beauty, it’s true,
But they’re meant to be for rest.
Yet this city keeps grinding forward
Taking breath for its fuel,
Leaving corpses for the wind.