UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY


DECLAN TAN

It's a city at night

there is only the pathetic
sound of wind
blowing
the sound
of nothing crying,
the sound of a typed
note,
the sound of zero
horns,
flutes,
unbeaten road
and the sound
that once could be made
from something to be learnt.
the sound of open arms,
unwrapped mercy of
unrolled cigarettes
prepared before an
untold
history,
born
in manís constant desire
to value something earned.
but no whimper in the huff
of a city in release
of itís day,
itís hour ticked,
can stop itís turn,
the black
cross
smeared
within boundaries of
imperfect white.









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