Sometimes I dream of friendly bulldozers,
of wrecking balls and sticks of dynamite,
a web of fusewire collapsing dullness,
ridding skylines of the square box syndrome
provided with glee by the misguided
who left a legacy of soulless streets.

Sometimes I dream of winding back the clock,
of a welcome clean slate on which to build
calm new leafy streets, not more wind tunnels,
pleasant parks containing fresh happiness
where shadows no longer envelope life,
a place to enjoy, not one to endure.

Sometimes I dream it was just a nightmare.
Perhaps I'll wake and gaze upon beauty;
landscapes lovingly crafted out of joy
where the air doesn't choke or smother thought
in desperate dark canyons full of lost hope.
And then I dream of friendly bulldozers.