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La Ciudad del Fantasma


We are the fallen folk
Trampled by the speed of light and the crawl of emotions
Neglected by the spirits
Subdued by iron, concrete, gray skies
Held close by steam stealing away from midnight manholes

We succumb under the weight of our desires
Living just to shove off from life, peering into the bottle

Yet never finding the message
Waiting for contentment to rap on our oaken doors
Fully knowing we are deaf to the staccato announcement of grace
Forgetting the simple and beautiful
Even as the autumn leaves envelope us

Repulsed, we brush the leaves off our fine wool coats,
Talk of breakfast, the rain, and the price of wheat in Chicago

We ostracize the world; itís safer this way

And we press on, juicing on predigested thought
Packing our bowls with the rhetoric of fools
Endlessly floating down the freeway
Dreaming of nothing, nothing at all