| does the wind walk thru you to you beneath you wrappin round cardboard boxes bound with lying eyes cast down or aside no one to meet, greet the morning cold empty but boldly you rise to your feet, gather your house in your hands, today you must have a plan: something to eat, scan the metallic cans lined in front of the fence, in a month you swear another chance will arise like the dawn, fast and worthy of your glorious past, pass the trash cans, trip tracing your finger near to examine the steel linger and place a thumb on the bell, who lives this well, a staggering height thrust into the sky, must remember why you left, a tremendous shaking sight and you place then trace your raw palm down into unto the denim of the empty you, the pocket you, the pocket you once knew could hold keys and possibilities of tomorrows and nights that were warm, mixed glided in form next to another smothered in scents and a sense to belong, along assumption consumption of materials and plans, remember you had a plan, slip sliding down the chain link fence, too many people come round, echoing a faint, distant sound, too unrecognizable to be found, swallowed in the hallows of the sidewalk, chalk your outline lost to hope, home is only a mechanism to cope. |