Here between these walls
The world is intoxicated
And you and I are the only ones sane
As we negotiate each others pain
And compensate it with blissful pleasure
Only we can fix all that is wrong
Beyond steamed windows
Outside where the world drowns in rain
Bit by bit
We discover the secret of happiness
And peace
As we fulfill the hunger within us
I swear we are half way there to ending poverty
We are overcome within ourselves
We are not you and I
But one
I'm wearing your old sweater
And we snuggle propped up against the wall
Or each other
Our arms wound around and palms pressed close, fingers knitted together
Your fingers stroke my hair
As we listen to the different heartbeats
And voice our own dreams
With words we build separate versions of an ideal world
Cora you say
How come we're here like this
We're both so different
And I reply that it doesn't matter
We both have too much respect to let differences matter
Respect for the right of others
To reach for achieving a utopia without harming another being
The secret is to never see yourself as superior
And balance it with never seeing yourself as inferior
It doesn't matter what the colour of your envelope is
Or what factory you were made in
Your brand is not the name of your religion or the soil you were born on
The essence and material are the same
I can feel your smile tickling against my forehead as you whisper
I think I know what you mean
Let me show you
And a foreign sound reaches my ears
It's a slow rhythmic tune
With soft vocals
I have no idea what the words mean
And at that moment
Not for the first time
It crosses my mind
That if everyone spoke the same language would we still be like this
But it doesn't matter
As I listen like a blind man with no sense of time
I understand the song is about love
And there's a touch of longing
I can feel the melancholy in her voice
And the nostalgic homesickness in his
As the song plays on
I imagine the two lovers were reunited
I can feel the gratitude
And relief
I can see their future
And its everything I've always dreamed of
My kind of utopia

ｔｈｅ ｐｏｅｔ
ｉｓ ｔｈｅ ｈｏｍｅｌｅｓｓ ｍａｎ
ｏｎ ｔｈｅ ｔｈｅ ｃｏｒｎｅｒ;
ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｐａｓｓｅｔｈ ｈｉｍ ｂｙ,
ｈｅ ｈａｓｔ ｍａｎｙ ｓｔｏｒｉｅｓ
ｔｏ ｔｅｌｌ.



©ｂｒａｎｄｏｎ ｎａｇｌｅｙ
©ｌｏｎｅｓｏｍｅ. ｐｏｅｔｓ. ｐｏｅｔｒｙ

U⃗U⃗s⃗ p⃗o⃗e⃗t⃗s⃗
A⃗r⃗A⃗r⃗e⃗ t⃗h⃗t⃗h⃗e⃗ d⃗e⃗f⃗i⃗d⃗e⃗f⃗i⃗n⃗i⃗t⃗i⃗o⃗n⃗
O⃗O⃗f⃗ i⃗n⃗s⃗a⃗i⃗n⃗s⃗a⃗n⃗i⃗t⃗y⃗ ;


Brandon nagley
Lonesome. Poets poetry