Under where an office seems,
An empty suit hatches schemes.
It promises hot sharp daydreams,
Full of fury, wild extremes,
Triumph, glory, high esteems,
On and on in such jagged themes!
And as our sinking city dreams,
The face of youth silent screams.
Whispers blacken her bright beams,
Dust clings where his gladness gleams,
And where flowed their salty streams,
Now the eyes leak only yellow creams,
Beneath their rind, the sickness teems,
Waiting to burst all sights at the seams.

-Grek Lockwood