Collapsing Cities | Poetry


 𖥸 —

If there was anything left to ruin, she supposes

it was this; somehow more glorious in this

lack of form than pieced together with

memories of mundane nights grocery

shopping or the innumerable days of

sickness, not always congestion or coughs.

Adjusted to the lack of affection as the rising

dust storms ate at the distant carcasses

of steel framework that used to house

what we had knowledge of, but now she

does not know of anything except what she left behind.

History does not change anything because

even as angered drivers no longer honk,

their unpleasantness down cracked asphalt.

she hears the echoes of all crushed

underneath the debris because

communication can not repair the 

nightmare of repetition.

The mind is not so benevolent to spare you,

as it so clearly imprints what it believes

inoubliable a majority crippling, and she

recalls your weathered Converse the miles


How she had a home once until it caved

in under the pressures the world tends to

have, or how she had confidence in the

world's humanity but it never seems to

have the proper illusions.

There she rests in the everlasting grip of

the solution she never desired, until she was

stripped of meaning, abadoned by life,

completely and utterly; atop the wreckage

of her existence in the form of imaginary

collapsing cities.


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