Poetry in Motion

01

Poetry in Motion: A purpose of graceful fluidity, such that moves with tactful elegance throughout.

A noun; abstract yet direct and completely beautiful to all five senses.

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There was something incredibly wrong with the city; it had been sick for a while, an underlining illness which no one really wished to point out, at least vocally, instead the same old, some old continued on from day to day. The same sparingly good weather, be it even a slight glimpse of the sun through greying clouds, or torrential downpours which seemed to last for days, and completely leech any light out of the surroundings.

Gotham City had always been sick, and it had always been cursed to have weather that reflected that, it seemed. The living conditions of those which inhabited couldn't have been more obvious, the only way it could become more so is if someone physically drew a line across the city. One side ruled by those of wealth, riches, and questionable common sense which made for riveting magazine articles. The other side inhabited by those that struggled with the simplest of things, holding down a job, earning a wage to buy the most common commodities like food, pay for rent, for bills; things which those on the other side of the city would never have to dwell on.

As if any one of the men or women who walked around as if they owned the city, which some possibly did, had ever dwelt over another human's plight; especially a human that shared and called this place home. It wasn't a good home; it was just a place to stay. Even if the roofs above heads could be called into question too.

The city was its own contradiction, and nowhere else on earth could that contradiction be more obvious than here. It was hard, near on impossible to be light-hearted in a place that was so dark. Walking down streets was dangerous, even leaving home was; the chances of crossing paths with some dark, questionable character was incredibly high. But the police did not look this way, in the darkest depths at the depravity which could be taking place. As long as nothing or no one upstarted and caused problems for those in charge of running the city, then the ignored in the bowels of the beast could be forgotten easily enough.

There was nothing like living in the slight slum like areas which could make someone feel like a forgotten, worthless and lonely thing, not a human, a thing; kept at arm's length by anyone else, untrusting and shafted as if something physical could be caught just by sharing the same airspace. Poverty didn't work like that. No, much like most things in life, in this city; it started off small, no matter the problem, and before anyone knew it, it had grown into this unfathomable thing, a problem so great that it could not be handled.

That is usually what bought people to the lesser side of the city. It wasn't wholly the reason why Imelda Henderson found herself here. She could say she had lived on both sides of the fence, the jaded, gilded cages and brilliance of being wealthy, of being popular, even if it was falsity, acting, detachment, but also what it felt like to have to crawl, grasp and try so hard to get what she needed to live.

Nothing came for free, and the saying couldn't be truer; there was no way to try and do something for someone else, without them wanting something in return. To even get a foothold anywhere still seemed to be based off who you knew, and how credible you were. Imelda was credible, even if it was clear that she did not wholly belong in this area of the city; that wasn't her being big-headed or egotistical, some traits could not be so easily abandoned unlike most of her possessions which had to be pawned.

Even if the price given was ridiculous, she could see when someone was taking the piss. But how could she comment and contradict from the ratty looking man on the other side of the protective glass? It was always scratched up with new dings and dents, as if people had lashed out against it yet failed to get to the man smirking there.