Crows line the powerlines, looking upon each passer-by as a morsel.
Weeds and vines grow from betwixt pavers and out of drains and gutters.
Hounds run rampant between yards, snagging vermin and birds, ravaging coops each night.
Helicopters orbit, and never land. The empty city is but a spectacle, it’s visage broadcast across luminescent squares for miles.
Coughs sound like gunfire.
A sneeze draws torches and pitchforks.
Orwell spins in his grave.
Header image: NZ Herald
Words by Toby McCorquodale