At the intersection of futility and rage
hangs a monument to discord,
its anthem the harsh horn punctuated
by arguments, epithets, and gunshots.
It is not rooted in earth or tarmac,
not rendered in stone or broken glass.
You will breathe it unknowing in air
hung heavy with pollutants
dampened but never washed clean
by rain that falls like a lament
and rises like grief, the ghost
of a sigh murmuring beneath
the breath of the street preacher:
Vanity; all is vanity.
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