Concrete Heart

A chain of motions, murmured, worn, and known —
the weekday’s breath, the dust of daily schemes.
I wait for scattered pieces to be sewn
into a whole that walks through lucid dreams.

Everyday routine, or routine daylity,
to strip away the name of fleeting noise;
for every cell to guard a door of reality,
half-open, whispering a secret choice.

Our age is poured in concrete, not in gold —
yet on that gray, a crimson graffiti-heart still glows,
its painted pulse defying what we’re told,
its color deep as roots the city knows.

13.08.2025