I envision a scene of a-t and c-lture
splashed with colour and manic sculptors.
Not the thin bland printed paper
that represents the canvas of the city's a-tists.

Our vision so muddled with bl-ck white and red
the customs so riddled, so seemingly de-d.
Our bridges burnt, our pride deeply h-rt
the future of a country that stands al-ne.

The dis-greements that arrive en route
that need the peoples opinion: a r-gged vote.
A nation's patience wearing so thin
destination fa-lure, proof of what we can achieve.

As construction sites dig the city's gr-ve
and the drills echoing the d-af and depra-ed
The skyscrapers all built to cloud nine
the climb and the drop: the thrill of the ride

I would like to submit this: complete and unabridged
Yet the editors that scan this at the edge of a ridge
Their hand forced, their eyes glazed
pressing delete, made to erase

And the post that this poem's pasted on
which everyday commuters read with scorn
Their frowns curve up at the caption of the pic:
"These are the words of a lunatic".