Fictional cities pile upon each other,
spreading like blood puddles
until they spill into yet others
at their amorphous edges.
And distinction is lost --
homogeneity wins --
but that lysergic sadness remains.
The youth sought to forge a utopia,
but suffered a kind of myopia.
They built a grand city,
but the people were shitty.
That's how you make a gleaming dystopia.
in the chiaroscuro world
of the night market,
fruity colors blare in
orange,
green,
&
yellow
between angular
shadows
the sun is down;
the city is alive,
and soon the
night market
will be lively