King Without a Crown

Every other night when the flames die down,
I make way across the right-angled jungle.
Drenched in black, sack on back, the town
Has begun to crumble.
Old factories sit abandoned in the frigid air
Where the morning glories lag,
And the walls ache with bald boredom.
I have gone this way everyday, and it has never changed,
But today, todays the day, I’ve come to the city
With my holster loaded with paint.
Silence ringing.
The sirens attempt to overtake
the shaking bearings banging in my bag.
This high from the toxic fumes
may compel my senses to lag,
but these rings echo through this tomb
that’s now labeled with my tag:
“Come, look and listen.
I think of crime in a
New York state of mind.
If it’s a crime to express my feelings
may my pen form the words I cannot speak.”

At sunset, the patrol begins once again
and all the vandals are set to scramble.
A million siblings looking the same,
Since Robert Moses took the gamble.
But the city streets are clean
where you once would reside,
and where you lie now.
Urban sprawl in effect on the scene,
Relocating an evocation to hide.
What’s there to do now?
The walls get ridded of the names
before anyone hears the cry out.