Sparking Lines

faces looming down
and the sound of outside is muted
dystopic with the hoods and white
puffy faces

a screech of metal arouses
these terraces of peeling paint
bare their soul as I
bare my own

wet air attacks on its side
when we’re alone

this feels as though it’s a figment

wired chatter reverberates
on wet stone
and growing bone that’s stacked

this is the place you come to die

sudden lights blow away
the shading dusty air

a roaring turbine
stirs something inside me

stirs everyone

with platitudes we are gone
a rack of spines shirked onward
by the crunching spires
of whistling beasts


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