Glorious suffering,
Born among the mysterious poor,
Shredding darkness with tiny
Bits of light that illuminate minutes,
The crests of moments, colorful,
Spreading across a grateful soul,
A manifestation of grace in poverty,
Streets of the nocturnal
that disperse into industrial days
Where they sweat the blood
And honor their young,
The poor have secret places
Gathering in the heart,
A rhythmic harmony in the simplicity,
They hear the birds,
Embrace the wind
And kiss the sorrows goodnight.

Can you see beyond
What you believe is a sea
Though in reality
Is a tiny trickle
Expanded only
In the minds
Of those who were fooled

Cross that tiny gap
Break the barriers
Of the past
And find the truth
Of our human connection

We are not a small
Band of ****** brothers
Or a class of kin
Classified by our borders
And the color of our skin

We are a collective
Cut from the same cloth
Of history
The same chain
Of DNA

We are human
To be loved and accepted
Not feared or rejected

We are children
Living within
The limited life span

We are not one clan
Against a million
But one tribe
That counts seven billion
plus

The city's a blur
ceasless
as the rotation of night
into speeding flight...
a parallax.

This town's deranged
greasy
like the hands of perverts
afterhours.


I don't understand
that you're still here,
Mystere'
while nothing happens
in this billboard valley
with its mannequin loves
and ****** students;

nothing comes of this
dustbowl
with Christmas blinking in the center
and promises on the cusp
of learning / curves
say Huh?

I know, you say
there's a fabulous place
beneathe
the buzzing web of profits
its busy electric streets
business of passing feet

a wonderful niche
besides
the lions and tigers and Cher
(Oh My!)
secrets only you would know
of its afterglow
because you call it

home.

Now that I've reached this place
Nearer the ending than the start
Where memories can't be trusted
With flames in my brain
And storms in my heart
I shall not be reconstructed

                                          By Phil Roberts