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What Was Left, What Was Golden

Mark McConville

The city shivered in the cold

Dreams were made here

Thrown like Post-It notes

For the lost to catch.


The city was a utopia

Bathed in heatwaves

Crowded by buskers

And the people of faith.


It died a horrible death

Filled with shuttered houses

Broken ties, empty stomachs,

A clash of words and fists.


Hopeless people tried to guard

What was left, what was golden,

But they all fled the scene

With bloody noses and the pounding noise,

Of junked up hearts in their ears.

Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist who has written for many online and print publications. He also likes to write dark fiction and poetry.

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