Cranes reach like metal hope
Into thin, still air, where lost lives lie.
Grey, sultry sky of clouds like heavy hurt.
Ready to spill their souls.
Structures grow, imperious in their lack of nature.
Scars of perceived intelligence.
The foreground is distraction.
Much as players play beauty,
Stretched vocals and empty words are the most vigorously applauded.
And here it is, this sullied backdrop,
Filling with husks of hopeful hopelessness.
Dust plays in the single ray of light between the clouds, through the finger stained window of the train.
Lost lives for nothing but for this.
As faces fail to look
Like anything but loss.
Lost in constructions of their own constrained creation.
Travel onwards, onwards but not towards.
The city calls,
The city calls above the trumpets,
It calls it's tired, manufactured call,
It calls with stretched voice.
Living sightless with our vision,
We hang like corpses from the cranes.