Poetry

Copper blood

the world that falls in rags  

A life spent in coins leave stains on hands. Trade rusts through skin to reclaim its bones.   

                                           breaths are drawn for copper.  

Fabric rips in the eyes of merchants as it loses its threads faster than smiles spread amongst crooks.  

Fears are numbed by the touch of money, promises slip from ambition.                                                                                   Wealth grows from lies placed beneath the feet of those that tread the skin of this city and shred its silk to                             rags.

last minute seconds 

Visions slip through hands that lose their grip in thought    

Time creeps into its remains filling the cracks in whispers

a hope scrapes against its skin until light permits its fall.

Hours crack like thunder,

words cleanse as rain

                                  and we rise against the urban sky to

blossom freely as a second city

                                                born from the sting of the last,

sown with rebellious seeds.

Beth Andralojc