In a city rebuilt by the wind
Laying new foundations becomes a repetitive task
The hearts of the citizens on the mend
What of pity, a man may say
A glare in the corner of his eye
Every hour he spends each passing day
Worried what may come out as a lie
What of life, a person contemplates
From the floor of the corner cafe
Scrolling through their phone for perspective dates
I will see you later, they do not say
What of death, the roses frost over
Funerals take on a a humble tone
This is not how we dreamed we would prosper
Every person rushing to not die alone.
