by Brandon Ford
to those who will follow
and duplicate my dwelling here
I will be but a shadow, a stain, a window that won't open
will i have been here at all?
Like those who were ahead of me
whose lives are layers beneath mine
how many coats of others paint
are below this glossy urban life i shine?
when history no longer has a voice
when time has clearly made it's choice
and nothing is preserved
how many times has it already cycled
and another day has dawned
tear down the old and build the new
yesterday is done
it will start again
with a fresh coat of paint
here in the city,
theirs, mine, and ours,
it always does,
but not until i'm gone
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