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Spoken version
A recorded reading of “Skyline Heart”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
I wear the city on my face, its buildings etched in burning grace. Brick by brick, the world takes its toll, etching its weight on the curves of my soul. Each avenue hums with forgotten lives, their whispers lodged where my memory thrives. The air tastes of rust, of rain long gone, a smog-laden breath, the ghost of dawn. Skyscrapers rise from scarlet clay, casting shadows where dreams decay. Yet in the windows, my secrets gleam, a fractured soul, a quiet scream. The green in my eyes, a fragile bloom, a garden of hope amid the gloom. Against the red—this endless unrest— a furnace of passion beats in my chest. Am I the city, a maze of despair, or a heartbeat that pulses beneath its veneer? The towers, they rise, but they also confine, a kingdom of concrete that claims what is mine. Yet as twilight spills its amber embrace, I trace the skyline—its jagged face. The weight bends to my will, my fire, my breath— a city reborn, alive in my stead.
Alternative version
I wear the city on my face, its buildings etched in burning grace. Brick and glass—my cheeks, my brow, its sprawling veins, my solemn vow. Skyscrapers rise from scarlet clay, casting shadows where dreams decay. Yet in the windows, my secrets gleam, a fractured soul, a quiet scream. The green in my eyes, a patch of grass, where towers relent, where breaths amass. Against the red—this raw expanse— a fragile hope, a fleeting chance. The streets carve stories into my skin, each avenue a place I've been. Neon scars and concrete sighs, a city alive where my spirit lies. Is this mask a shield, a cage, a throne? Am I the city, or am I alone? Its weight, its fire, its endless din, the city lives beneath my skin.
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