He’ll paste his pencil in the sky and watch it spin like a
clock,
the way those hands move is sensual in a way,
decaying structures crumble like pieces of cake,
wake the children to see this fire,
higher and higher till it burns the city for a second time,
He’ll be the phoenix rising from the ashes,
that symbol washing the blood from the cities hands,
a deep crimson dripping from the lake,
diving to dig the graves up,
let the corpses float so we know where are forefathers are,
He’ll create his own river bending to his will,
till the earth erupts with colorful guffaws,
that past leaking from his shadows and scaring him,
he was never afraid of the dark before,
but something real is waiting for him
around the next dirty street corner.
