A: T.O.

A Gothic City
Rises out of the Mist
Struggling
In this Grey Dawn
To emerge
From the Nineteenth century.

A northeast breeze
Ruffles bright leaves
In the filigree
Of winter’s branches.
It’s Springtime for a New York
Deep in autumnal Decay.

In this Clamorous center
Of Empire
The Great City
Manifests its Progress
In denial of a Spirit
Mired in a Gilded Age.

Manhattan’s Spires
Now shadowed
By Pencil Towers
Like Obelisks
Celebrating an Imperious Elite
Long practiced in Oppression;

Like Stelae subtly inscribing
The morals of the Rich;
Towers sunk deep on an Island
Where old Fortresses Remain
Once used to Quell the Masses.
Always: The Oligarchs.