twenty eighteen
i wake up
& check my stats!
the beast needs to be fed.
like embers when the fire
drifts. our sticks poke
but she’s going.
they used to knock
your door for old wood –
not these days.
the area is rigged
with expensive apartments
high into the sky,
gobbling up the green space –
urban prisons
and when rates hike
the bottom falls out
and the freeholder
(whoever that is)
screws the residents
for other ways to profit.
most leaseholders,
as night time dawns
oddly stay indoors –
streets quiet
lights off at 10 –
while others dance
under a garnered moon
but they too
will fall asleep.
i wake up
& check my stats!
the beast needs to be fed.
Another Poem by Skendong: Claiming My World: Defiance In Hushed Tones