The Idea-smithy

In the jungles of competition
And through torrents of hardships
Tiny flowers of humanity blossom somehow
No sun to bask in…they hang on solely to pinpoint stars of hope

So it is in the island city
Everyday I watch it shatter in a thousand miniscule ways and return as debris
It is called the city that never sleeps
I call it the city of broken dreams…of faded wishes and jaded souls

The daily circle of life weaves itself
Into fractured fractals
It is infinte, it is complex,
It is both beautiful and tragic

It is life.
It is home.

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