Sing out for the repulsed.
The putrid. The obscene.
For all the children just find their way on and in the music scene.
Sing out for every grandma that shutters as we walk by.
Sing out for every giggle let out at a government lie.
Sing in the artificial moonlight on streets that never see darkness or silence.
Sing in the drunk revelry of youth
and hormones and whispered sweet nothings
nether will remember.
And of looks deep into her. . .
eyes because they are truly the most beautiful thing you have seen this night.
Sing in voices too loud for the hour.
Listen to the sound of youth plotting revolution and redistribution of power.
But are derailed when they learn the milk has gone sour
and someone must walk to buy more at two thirty on a Tuesday morning.
Sing of the truly mundane immortalized
in novels and short stories and twitter accounts weekly
as the clock switches from Friday to Saturday largely unnoticed.
Sing of me brothers and sisters.
Sing of me as I walk to my future
tired, weary, and feet covered in blisters.
For the walk is long, and time waits for no one.