Confessions

Plastic priestesses,

holding my childhood secrets

in their little hands.

Fall

What cannot take root,

Must then pass as a whisper -

like a falling leaf.

Satire

Like a skilled actress,

The city decides how it

wants to frame its face.

Prayer

There you held my hand,

your face lit by neon gods

My prayer is my sin.

Dystopia

If your heart is a

city, will I find a home

or a dystopia?

Graffiti

Urban art, some say,

is the answer to what the

System tries to kill.

Muse

The sea will always

Remind me of my father

and his tragic muse.