The City

I am the ruins of a forgotten city.

A city which is now a half baked jigsaw of broken down monuments.

You may call these monuments buildings,

for they once were built on the foundations of character and a vague semblance of humanity.

There are building of tears,

Arches of guilt,

Unending pathways of remorse

Blind-turns of faith, hope and agony.

I am still alive.

The city is still alive.

Alive and dead in the same moment of space time.

There are crumbling bricks of men and decaying concrete women.

They were complete once, now , only pictures.

Installations in a gallery which no one visits.

Flickering images and broken dialogue on television sets

Soaps with anonymous actors, playing out unknown stories,

Broadcasted on channels which don’t exist.

I hear music.

The city has music.

Jarring, itching notes created on a violin

Made out of broken furniture and high tension wires.

It goes on and on, like the unending leak lying unrepaired

At the house which plays the soaps.

The city is empty and full.

Loud and quiet.

I am the city that you cross, looking out of train windows

Visiting places that you think you know.