The pits of imperialism

The daily rousing

of the street’s sacred

 

They are the rustic drifters

that migrated to the city streets

where the lights don’t fade, and the air breathes heavy.

 

But don’t be fooled by the boozy ignorance

and their cowardly fights,

 

It’s an itch that’s too often scratched

cold, dry.

it’s that feeling,

so far in

just gonna keep on going,

gone.

 

The seasons change

in the short span of a day

 

onlookers astonished by their

precocious adaption

to the harsh terrain

 

The street bumpkins

forge connections

amidst the cobwebs and stone

 

only to be beat and left behind

by the city kids that roam

those who’d already nestled within these pits

so long ago

 

‘We’re taking back what’s ours’,

they yelled

then tore through the streets

no care in the world

for what they just stole

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