A hiss curling around
the ears, cutting the dirty
beige façade of a building.
Tonight, I use gunmetal grey—
a fast color for this city, this canvas
where flowers shoot
from the barrels of Remingtons;
where empty theaters,
smoke-blackened gates,
and half-burnt bath-tile walls
are robed with layers of
stickerpaperstenciled murals
in paintaerosol.
My stories have a well-worn path;
pull the trigger, innocent dies,
pull the lever, guilty man
crumples into a drab heap.
Pull the wool from your eyes
roll the dice, and pray that the city
never runs out of places
safe enough for a small tale
Marian Leanna T. Dela Cruz
