The heart of the city
is made of steel.
Its soul is made of stone.
It gives no mercy, and has no pity.
It eats the unprotected innocent and spits out
runaways, junkies, whores, and thieves.
It gleams like a glass eye, but like a glass eye,
doesn’t see the harm it causes.
Some write upon its heart to make their presence known,
their absence felt.
The city makes it a crime, and begins its slow erosion
of the anguish of your screaming soul.
It will not remember your name.
It will not care.
It may pay you in cash,
or redeem you in blood.
The choice is yours,
but not really.
*Photo by Loes ten Den at Unsplash
Beyond Panic 