The city’s lungs are filled with cancers and tar,
Where the sky is beat, left with purple bruises,
And the leaders are old newspapers, rustling with yesterdays news.
We are shadows cast by buildings we do not own,
Tracing the same cracks in the pavement,
Until the cracks become our maps.
But.
Green life pokes a finger through the asphalt,
A sprout, blossoming in the dark ages.
It does not ask for permission to grow;
It does not wait for the gavel to fall.
The sun, that ancient gold coin,
Spends itself freely on the weeds and the rulers alike.
We are not the cracks;
We are the seeds that made them.
