My city is an unfinished poem of perpetual progression.
Rife with never-ending edits, my city is forever dissatisfied with the elegant line that once drew praise or the one perfect word that now lives only in memory.
My city is an unfinished poem habitually searching for the rhythm of the streets and scansion of its citizens. Line breaks become rearranged and whole stanzas are threatened with deletion unless a local laureate champions an historic designation to at least preserve the facade.
My city is an unfinished poem in conflict with itself. Traditional metrics disdain free verse and prose claims no rules apply. Neighborhoods are increasingly enjambed while run-on sentences ignore stops.
My city is an unfinished poem of propertied pantoums and affluent villanelles relentlessly repeating that the epic poetry of the city requires the partitioning of limericks.
My city is an unfinished poem divided by translations marching for acceptance among anapest and dactyl dominance. New variations eager to expand convention clash with classical forms.
My city is an unfinished poem in continuous slam competition with other unfinished urban compositions and re-creation myths.
My city is an unfinished poem of mourning and celebrating in its loop of demise and rebirth.
My city is an unfinished.
