A golden skyline that's endless,
And beacon-like towers with the thickest of light,
The streets are wide and bendless—
An ominous feel of perfection,
The creepiest of delights.
People have the smiling faces of puppets,
Their wrinkling jaws burn hardened eyes.
There is no conflict, and no theft,
Not a disposition to fight,
Not a person left—
Not a person forgotten.
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