A Hawk in the forest of steel...
Girders growing up and out of the ground...
flowering into living tombs...
Ground is just a term for horizontal concrete...

Nothing grows here except hatred & connections...
The spiders web here will never know the glory of the dew...
glistening in the morning's sun...
And the spiders never seem to catch anything but the butterflies...

Flys seem to migrate from carcass to carcass...
Feeding off of life yet never living...
Breeding yet never experiencing birth...
Somehow they call this living...

Somehow the hawk survives...
Foraging the city limits for glimpses of life...
Feeding off of memories of past flights...
He knows he will escape, maybe even alive ...

catching stale updrafts...
tainted of exhaust fumes...
Searching the skyline...
looking past the smog’s plumes...

from crooked post...
to street lights pole...
city trees...
lacking soul...
cold hard facts...
mired in myth...
This is living?...
This is it?...

The mice of field...
Hide below like worms...
and snakes lay coiled...
behind neon porn...

The hawk spirals up...
and falls again...
Heart, it aches...
for the cities pain...

Gliding past the vacant souls...
The bird of prey...
the bird of woe...
heart of gray...
longing for empty skies...
dodging trash...
City Hawk cries......