The Bradbury

May 7, 2017 6:43 pm

Sat placid in decay; roots buried shin-deep,
all the while a constant nebula of neon
swirls around your bowed head.
Rotting from the inside,
your glory days are long past.
Scolded like a beggar on their knees,
in the shadow of the ominous high-rise.
Still proud, but beaten like some
30s Hollywood mansion;
as deluded as the stars within.
Left in a sinkhole of cultures,
through a postmodernist wasteland;
bubbling, brimming, emptying to the streets.
Do you know your own morality?
Your own mortality?
Perhaps better than some.

Lonely; the fae figure silhouetted
in desperate, dank, rain-filled streets.
Elemental in nature.
Will you provide shelter?
Make yourself fit-for-purpose
like you were built to be?
Rain trickles through your cracks,
but doesn’t humiliate your presence.
You’ve rid yourself of the blight of man
many years before your current state.
They sailed for colonies far-reaching,
off-world habitations to plunder and defecate.
Here; ceaseless rain obscures to a constant blur
as fireballs pirouette from the tallest chimneys.
Countless floors above, capitalists cast
judgement over crumbling facades.

Hard labour worn into every replicants face;
prays a stark reminder of their creator,
as day and night merge to a humming
fluorescent nightmare.
Incessant downpours flood edifices
like a river of black tar, encircling you.
This ruined ecosystem revels
in its own sordid crapulence.
But salvation lies on the rooftops;
the bowery; the gables.
Ever the paraclete,
you soar through the volley
away from fading embankments
toward the dimmest of lights
in the dullest of skies.
While we all lay in the gutter and look up to the stars.

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