Standing on a field of flowers and picking the rocks, ‘cause the blacks and grays rest easier on the eyes than any bright

colors that steal from the sun to give to midnight

No flowers bring fortune, only a feeling kept in 8 oz. bottles and sold to the highest bidder

And thinking becomes a casualty, the first in a war of thoughts that border on insanity, where those who see reason

and those who see people clash at the gates of the heart

It’s raining raindrops that mean something to people somewhere, someone is saying something that can’t be done,

and waiting for someone do it

And there’s nothing between the gunshots and the feeling that there’s nothing to lose, and the hope that maybe this time I won’t lose it

Reality means nothing to circumstance and hope, and circumstance breeds a circle of reason and laughter, the laughter engaged reason

Illogic and logic combine like screams and the sound of marching bodies, and no dictator or leader can turn the people’s minds away from what

they want to see, and if they can’t find it here, they’ll find it somewhere else

It’s a long hard road to the finish line, and this point, I have no shoes, I have no conscience, and no gun with one 

bullet to stop the race from ending

Like a noir film in the olden days, or like a speakeasy in Chicago, the world thinks nothing of the qualms of the righteous or the thoughts

of the wicked, ‘cause they know in the end, they’re the same

There’s a voice inside all of us, of course, but it’s a voice that most squelch, and others revile, so that there’s no way to control

what must be controlled.