Amongst these brick and mortar cattle runs,
Ofttimes there are cries,
At increasing intervals,
Blood and missing teeth have become currency,
Knives no longer endangered beasts,
As violence takes the asphalt stage,

Under grey weeping skies,
There are hooded souls cooped up too long,
Compelled towards a kind of gang lunacy,
Closed fists encouraged by closed doors,
Frustration morphed into crime,
Assault piled atop assault,

It wasn’t always this way,
These sidewalks were once humble and pristine,
A virus has begotten further illness,
Sickness of the mind,
And the asphalt bears the evidence,
Red and running outward.

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