she of the immaculate conception, she of the self-created self sustaining myth. more words have been spilled on your behalf than blood has been shed in all the wars of old. you stand with the arrogance of the hubris of all humanity, the bones of your architecture always arched skyward. the green heart of central park beats like a dismissive afterthought to the glory of mother nature, but your streets crowd around her, crowd her out, miracles wrought in metals and in cement. you with your siren song that lures dreamers from the furthest shore, you as your own high priestess christening yourself the holy city of the free world. at your feet lie the broken souls of those who have offered themselves up for the briefest flickering promise of glory. for every dream you deign to realize you consume a thousand more in the crush of your bloodied jaws.
you flaunt your decay alongside your couture, you rip hearts from cages and you fashion flimsy armour that gleams in the flickering streetlamps. you will die performing your own glory, you will consecrate every narrative written into cliches that people will bear on their backs as pedestals. the capitalist despotism of wall street steels your spine; but the grit of queens blackens your manic grin, while the glamour of broadway burnishes your skin with gold.