Dear Developed World

“Fit in!" you summoned.
My dark eyes bowed.
 like a sheep I followed,
and you let me in this amazing world.
I walked through your beautiful city,
water views and mountain vistas ahead of me.
Aged buildings whispered to me
of the shared pride in deep culture and history.
Had I been born a pigeon, I'd live
in its window sill and observe
the secret museum behind your red-brick facades,
where you once decorated the heads of slaves.
I would fly down and sit atop heads affixed to walls,
I would shit on them and coo a song on your past.
I was taught to dearly love you and your dogs.
 
My eyes feasted as I walked the city.
lost in swathes of green spaces on cool streets,
heated by beautiful girls’ attire:
fur, barely covering their sacred places,
the air around them warmed by blood brought to a boil.
I saw a young man touch the bare skin ecstatically
 “Baby, you are my religion,” he whispered.
there he found paradise.
I loved the freedom of your city.
 
In the muddy snow of your city,
I walked alive on a red pathway.
From a distance, brown industrial haze
sneered at my bloody backward thoughts.
The grandeur of white houses put me off.
If I were a wild cat,
I’d piss all over the white,
screech atop the nestling cliffs,
hiss at your greatness.
But my timid soul shuddered.
you were the owner of the world.
 
I walked off into a side alley,
past the bars, the nightclubs, and the takeaways,
I smelt the liquor and the vomit in your city.
“This is the smell of  your poor world,
living in the shadows for centuries,” You laughed.
Ashamed, I giggled.

An old woman sat alone on a bench.
Her hair, metallic white, long and lush,
her eyes, a blue lake,
once cherished by the spring sun,
now wrapped in loneliness.
Her beautiful face gleamed as her arm extended.
I helped her stand,
our hands touched like the kiss of a moth.
I smiled and turned to go,
but she leaned like an old tree facing a wind storm,
I gripped her hand firmly and we walked.
She didn’t look at your beautiful city,
the colors of your world had lost meaning.
I loathed your world.
Holding my hand and leaning on a stick,
she wheezed, a puddle of malice after a storm.
She watched only the ground,
as if she would ask the earth to hide her,
without the pain of death.
A few steps away,
she looked into my eyes and spoke,
“I’ve no-one.”
Glum, I walked forward,
but she called me back and pressed my arm,
as if she did not want me to leave.
A tear from her blue eye dropped onto my hand,
and touched my soul.
It grows every day,
 and it will someday drown me.
I’m handing now that sorrow to you,
it will not drown your world,
your city has no pity left.