Gunpowder scatters across flame of setting sun,
slowing to dandelion seeds caught in the wind;
fluttering flock of silhouette wings woke from their nest,
perched among peaks of black keys for trees:
A skyline that exists only in contrast to neon contrails
marshmallow painted by hospital chimneys;
trains seen from bridges—
the circuitry-arteries of modern cities,
buzzing distracted commuters from A to B—
tracks the capillaries
to retro future chrome,
brutalist stations the artificial constellations
that map a landscape imbued through dull windows;
windows the electric chorus of buzzing shop facade,
whirling phosphorous notes breathed onto breeze of night;
polluted glow caught on flapping fly paper staves,
carved by bellow’d-baritone of exhausting cars:
winding, weaving,
a hurtling toward serpentine veins
tattooed across midnight of blackened countryside
waking at dawn to do it all again,
sacrifice on the altar of the subaltern.
Tom Pryce is a 25-year-old poet based in Cambridge, England. He was recently a student of philosophy and now works as a writer for a technology company. He first had poems published in 2018, while studying for his master’s degree. He since has had two poems published in the Ekphrastic Review.
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