The City

Tall trees stand 
as organic tributes to a bucolic passing

bovine sculptures in a concrete age.

Steel car-pods shuttle

sub-routines of a wired world,

and wailing sirens demand attention

like spoilt brats in a mad kindergarten.

This is the City where

all heads turn in expectation

towards any bloodied scene unfolding,

where the individuals theory of immortality

is never discredited, in one’s own lifetime.

Constantly we are nurtured, by self medication

the act of creation, and recreation. 

This City is a tottering pile, of coloured bricks,

in the hands of a self-centred child.

©Copyright Niall OConnor

Images borrowed from the web