They made this world
out of corporeal shapes,
borders, the feats of solids,
solidness, the arousal
these high-rises attain.
A masquerade of timid greed,
a masked ball of concrete desire.
The fists of armed cement
punching skies,
verso one another,
a quarrel of towers
against the breath of heaven.
But behind these solid masks
there are people.
There are hearts,
smashed between irons clashing,
soft souls trampled
like iron heels
crushing little ladybugs.
Inside these shells you stomp upon
are the softest snails.
Hearts cast in crunchy chests,
feelings sealed
within concrete coats.
These foggy high-rises,
these misted mounts of glass,
ribcaged in steel frames,
they imprison the tender.
There are souls raging
through the trenches of words,
through cages of pages,
through bars of lines.
There is soft flesh
of undying screams
pressed between shells of silence.
Written songs unsung
within the husks of throats.
There is music hidden
in the scrawls of noise,
poetries unwritten
on both sides of the wet windows
of iron and wood.
