They call it a jungle…
Concrete trees blot out the sun
Pocked boles block out the dawn
Climbing people, a noisy lot
Shaky roots and metal top.
Lines snake between the trees
Skies cry…these paths slide free
Crevices aside, filthy rank moisture
Where ‘squitoes find sluggish succor.
Fierce heat lies low, unmoving
Sparked ropes twine confusing
No room to swing, yet fling they do
Noisy life to honk and deafen you.
Belching behemoths taint the air
Old and new monsters roam the depths
Angry honks leave no room to tread
The art of Pedestrian motion is dead.
The air pulses…deep angry throb
Irate clouds hang low, poison crop
Its denizens reach up, drink deep
Violence flares, the weak weep.
I can’t sleep.
They call it a jungle
Written by Emem Alexandra Akpan-Nya