Click-clacking teetotallers parade the street with coffee breath as blazed
Cross-leggers giggle at the lopsided puddles dribbling on the backs of ants in cracks.
Cracks violate the dry heels of Prada worshipping women, who fan their faces
Dotted with sweat beads caused by the burning demon in the sky.
Sky scrapers grow invasively like weeds dominating a garden, that tower
Over the rows of cars continuously compacting the tar coated earth.
You can see them protruding from miles away, you can see them shine from space,
Harbouring millions of compartmentalised microcosms of life.
Man and machine seem so comfortable within their concrete fortress but
They can not contend with the almighty power that inevitably sneaks through the flaws.

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Writing is all I want to do.

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