Clybourn,
A crooked arrow
Flying straight
Into the mouth
Of the beast
Fog-enshrouded headstones
In the distance
Piercing the sky,
Haunted by the soulless ghouls
Of commerce
Moneyed robes
Cannot
Mask the obstacles,
Cut down
By my blade
In flight
Slice through progress
With triumphant regression
The cut draws not blood
But shame and impotence
From the lumbering brutes