Fighter

Along the deep grooves of the tiles that clack against your shoes.

In the great and sizeable concrete jungle, that we call the city.

Hanging vines above you resembles hair from the mother’s head.

In the cultured and rich concrete jungle that we call the city.

In these scrapes below are life forms, pushing upwards with leafy arms.

They introduce a lively scent to the streets and a rough texture on your tongue

as you exhale, reminding you of their constant presence.

The air feels like that of a forest: Thick and Rough but also Thin and Smooth.

Growth gracefully grants the ground with green, just beneath your feet,

although they feel as far away from you as the sun from the earth;

they might as well not be there.

The thick tangles tackle one another as they rise relentlessly from the rubble,

even after endless irrelevance, silently shouting for assistance, 

they cry and plead.

But still, they get ignored, pushed aside, mistreated.

The plants never give up, unable to be seen but even less able to be demolished.