sitting in the sun I see signs
little letters left by losers like me
purposeful prose spit forth from purple lips
tongues no longer wrapped tight around the tit of progress
is this paradise?
Is this the purpose of pilgrimage?
These free minds set fire to what I have found
in worlds I've seen on wings
in places so many punched tickets away
a bum smiles as he sells cardboard signs
daring dancers that dip below poverty
all these poor souls so rich in simplicity
all these chaotic minds caught in a haven from commercialism
a prison no person wishes to break free from
why run from such a reality?
why fight a freedom we have no interest in inheriting?
May I be chained to this choir of creativity
may I be tossed in this torture pit of personal proportion
may I move here and melt away
may I love as these losers love
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