We walk the streets looking for devilment, as we move to the music of the city:
The whoosh of cars gone by and the screams of people too inconsequential to pay any mind,
“He’s must be on that dope or his mind must of left em long ago.”
The buzzing of the tall signs and bright lights are hypnotic enough to make us forget how truly ugly the city is.
A rugged tapestry of greyscale accented with smog and potholes backdrops a procession of hungry souls,
Every one of us doing our own little dirt, credit card scammers, and tricks on the corners lookin to make a quick dolla,
The sizzle of artists and musicians performing in the park, hoping their passion could take them high above the glass ceiling before their dreams burn to ashes,
The laughs and jeers of those fortunate enough to escape the trap of the city add a shallow hum to the music,
And we amble to the beat of it all, enraptured by its sorrowful tempo.