The city of dreams

Grey concrete buildings of aspiration stood high
across the canal near the slum,
he looked out at lights with sleepy eyes
he too would one day live in a high- rise,
with enough food and security to keep him safe,
with a fancy mobile phone and a car,
far away from the dirt of the city streets
and the stench of garbage strewn around his feet.

Even in the day, the stench of decaying corpses
meld with the smell of sewage and waste,
wafting through a little boy's open window
the call of darkness to the chaste.
He drinks his milk and rushes out his backdoor,
ready for an evening of play.
He freezes, staring at the body on the floor,
innocence in flight, gore making him stay.

"The boy is now a man", they say,
the sight of blood still fresh in his eyes.
He sees red, he feels red
he feels the rage of the dead.
They teach him not to feel too bad,
they tell him to rise.
They don't feel the same way
but he will once his humanity dies.

The city never rests,
they all shuffle through the day.
Blind people in fancy cars,
others with eyes closed in the rain.
The two boys shuffle
shoulder to shoulder,
side by side,
I doubt they wonder about the
dreams that kept them up at night.