A city without walls,
Opened to all,
Like vaults and cells,
Keeping cheques and them in check.

Encamped in this rabbit hole,
Are embalmed souls,
Who parted cargoes of visions,
For pottage of illusions.

The soles of spirits,
Sniffling under the drudge of heaviness,
Ascending yet descending,
On the ladder of purpose.

A snare to sour sixteens,
Who sat but watched their infants,
Exchanged for pennies.

A second silence …
For the birds who flapped their wings
but clipped by the whirlwind
for the silver cups in their grains.

Ward X;

The benevolent river that overflows its banks in summer and winter,
To rub salt on the wounds of the broken.

© Dazzyella