A strip of hot asphalt,
Street corners with black buzzards,
Buildings with walls that crawl with electric veins,
Inside their halls visitors play unfaithful games.
A palace for the perfumed rich,
Fell in flames,
Left casinos lame.
Its moon drenched in toxic absinthe,
Alleys of tin cans and porn,
A city whose ruler wore a pronged horn.
But, by the pretty lights the players still played,
Humping their way towards a desolate dream,
Empty and bleak,
Out in the desert they remained and did sleep.
© Hannah Allen
Excerpt from the book “A New City”
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