Grip

The land forced to yield to water for jungles of skyscrapers

with anodized windows and welded greed

minions of directionless forces slathering on cement

the minions dying for food and killing in the process

a hundred other dreams.

To breathe sometimes i run away from this land piled under concrete

i run to hide further, farther from the city

i run and find the brick kilns there

and the benzyl smell of cheap plastic

i run back into my town

The city finds me there

and builds buildings, flyovers and bridges

flooding sodium lights in my room.

my curtains recede leaving me bare

to the prying eyes of a window 3 inches away

i long for my childhood pastures

now under a million hungry feet.