Sometimes when on the fringes,
we stare into blinding lights,
get hooked upon the hinges,
weep dry tears throughout the night.

Sometimes our desert soul screams,
searches for vulture-life bliss,
tears out the mirage of seams,
betrays, fronts our eyes’ stark hiss.

Sometimes we grow to love what
isn’t- ours nor theirs in Time.
We steal the hands of zealots
and pretend ourselves sublime.

Sometimes we are berated,
Our throats fried in calloused strife.
Lotus petals fall, jaded;
The delusive sea lies rife.

But sometimes, though still womb-trapped,
confined to that which bears us,
we draw our own self-same map-
Escape on some seething bus:

We find the wet eyes of light
And dream our new dream, despite.

The City’s Blinding Lights