By Ahmed Latif
A residual of a memory clings like sunrise on a dirty street.
If you could hear the horns howl, you wouldn’t mind it.
But it’s all too dangerous, colouring outside the lines we never drew.
Clichés and inevitable turns of the screw mock everything haphazardly.
I hate sprained ankles because of their lack of coherence.
Trying to function as an urban soul is a challenge to linguistic metrics.
In a cage with a cat too determined to gnaw at the bars.
Sleeping so I could dream of coffee and energy drinks.
The alleys where stories did more than just preach, they walked.
Xylophone cover-songs and cigarettes thank the University of Counting Stars.
Hide and seek in an old condemned imaginary palace.
A convoluted homage to the sanity of the jungle at the Strait of Gibraltar.
Drums riot in a Parisian dream, too vague yet utterly vogue.
Luckily, it was just arbitrary fashion and circumstantial evidence.
Unfortunately, cynicism isn’t cool; it’s innate like a crooked smile.
I am not stubborn; I am freelance for the sake of the people!
***This poem can also be found in Swept Magazine