grave ruin (pile of stones, a relic)

the city opens up in front of me as I stand on the steps of the building

where I’ve been sitting

smoked my first cigarette of the day and had breakfast


recited poems written with blood

they pass me on their way in

there’s commotion, leather shoes, big windows

hectic glances, furrowed brows and a sense of self-worth

people full of themselves

yes, I do know

your reality, your truth

in this house, realities are reduced to numbers

theoretical talk

concepts abstract enough

to maintain distance

so you wouldn’t have to face it

look up at the hard worn benches of the gallery

not one of us has spoken within those walls

not one of us has been given space

to live, to be, to breathe

this place was built by the hard hands of colonialists

the cold stone walls repeat history

like a theater stage repeats the same patterns

until the last breath of post-capitalist society

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