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Francis Avila

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New York, NY, US

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The City

by

Francis Avila

One can never say for certain
Just what one's purpose is.
We shuffle on from day to day
Not knowing our end.
But the city does not care.

When we die, where will we go?
Will we be taken by a benevolent God,
Or one with no compassion?
Will anyone welcome us on our passing,
Or just worms and earth?
Will our actions even matter?
Will anyone even care?
I do know one thing, though:
The city does not care.

What city would, our meaningless selves.
Ants scrambling between dark canyons of steel.
If tens should die, tens more are there,
But the city, it will never change.

It serves no one, no God or master.
It serves just as a crack in the sidewalk,
And in its crevices we dwell,
And make for ourselves a life
Sheltered from storm and cold
By a timeless rock, built eons ago
By nameless, faceless masters
Of great resources and wealth.

The city is not made, but grows,
Tended to by those who call it home.
But if they should die
And leave the city still,
It would care no more,
No less,
Than you.