Arcanum Poeta 

Anonymous Contributor

I went to a city,

Which was painted in red

And the paint would not dry.

It was a cold city,

A sanguine ocean,

And the men were fishes,

And the children, worms,

The front, a fishing line,

And each rock, a grenade.

It was a loud city

So loud in its silence.

And there was no time.

A second was a year

And a year was a second.

It was a red, red city

Of paint that would never dry.