The Dark City

 

A darkness falls upon the town,

a silver line along the sky.

He watches from a hole sunk down

where once he went, to drift and die.

 

His mind was torn by silent days,

his soul grew thin beneath the strain.

He waits for her in lifeless haze —

her portrait smiles, still clear, still sane.

 

Inside his skull, where hours decay

and shadows hang like funeral veils,

the thunder cracks and sweeps away

his brittle hope in heavy gales.

 

Clouds above the towers groan,

lightning flickers on concrete skin.

Rain scrapes streets of soot and bone,

but can’t wash out the filth within.

 

Below, where rats and sewage breed,

the stench retreats to hidden ground.

No living soul would ever heed

the rusted pipes, the sewer’s sound.

It’s in the schools, the crowded malls,

the living rooms, the silent halls,

where madness simmers deep inside

and wears a smile it cannot hide.

 

The world pretends — but I can see

how plastic joy corrupts the brain.

Too many souls, no space for me —

I’d rather rot beneath the drain.

 

The sewer gas, the poisoned air,

the filth that climbs the oozing wall —

let it embrace me — I don't care,

I've heard too long the surface call.

 

Let me stay where light won’t fall,

where time forgets, where no one sees.

Invisible behind the crawl

of mold and rust and slow disease.

I pledge myself to slow decay,

to bitter smoke and toxic wine.

The claws of time won’t turn away —

they’ve pierced my back for far too long a time.

 

And now —

I stay.

I stand.
I sink.