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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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