The Asphalt's Hollow

It yawned wide beneath my step, an open mouth

on cracked city streets, full of dark rain and rust.

My ankle twisted hard—sharp bark of pain,

like the street had been waiting to bite me back.

Each jagged edge a crooked tooth,

spitting grit and stones that no one cleared away.

A hollow swallowing light and the carelessness

that turned this patch of road into a wound.

I limped slow, tasting dust and anger,

like the city forgot the cracks,

and every step was a silent complaint

against neglect buried deep in the blacktop.

You live on the surface,

you fall into the break.