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The stale, rancid stench of them lines the sides of the streets,

 

those who think they know us,

 

Trying to keep up with the pace, falling back and losing ground.

 

The city is always alive – buzzing – reeking of them

 

Their odour mixing too easily with the perfume of soft innocence.

 

Running blind under bright city lights

 

Waiting, pushing their way forward through the barriers

 

of trust and hope, breaking down the resistance

 

of self reliance.

 

They win the earth and crash forward into eternity,

 

While we lie in utero,

 

hoping to find the space to crawl out.

 

Blood boils over,

 

spilling into streets with vengeance,

 

seeping unseen into empty drains,

 

Drowned out by the cries

 

of misplaced morality.

 

We’re in boxes now.

 

Little boxes that we peer out of, waiting.

 

Always waiting.

**The palette knife painting is by Leonid Afremov

Rhea Dhanbhoora has been writing since childhood, has published a book of poems (Poetry Through Time, published by English Edition in 2003) and is currently a Literature student, writing features as part of a full-time job. She can’t imagine a life without writing and one day hopes to be able to live and breathe off the words, preferably in an idyllic country setting somewhere. Food, music, reading and travel are high up there on the list of things  she loves reading and writing about. Writing to her is, like life itself, an adventure – a journey to find her place, to define and redefine who she is over and over again and to live and learn through the process.

 

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