Under the station.
Sat in the tunnel.
Wind rushes through a cold wet funnel.
Blowing in breezes, the homeless guy sneezes.
He's teasing his hair, it's so vary matted.
His hair as a birds nest , it's painted bright red.
Red white and blue, he's a patriot too.
Stuck under the station,within our great nation.
He hasn't a home, he's living alone.
Wife ran away, got an away day.
Sat on budget seats, so she cheats.
Cuddling up, under another mans sheets.
The guy under the station.
He's too tense to mention, the family he lost.
The cost of another, whose name was Bob, (he told me that.)
He can't get a job cause he don't have a home.
He don't have a wife anymore.
He's single,can't mingle,
Because nobody bothers with guy in the underpass, who once was adored.
(c) LIVVI

Young men in France would clamber to that call,
To drink their fill of bottles filled with wine;
They lined them up and shot them on the wall.

Sat huddled in small cafes in the fall,
When news of war came creeping down the vine,
Young men in France would clamber to that call.

Their basic training taught them how to sprawl,
As target dummies waited in a line;
They lined them up and shot them on the wall.

They marched to battle, lean and fit and tall,
And when the whistles blew to give the sign,
Young men in France would clamber to that call.

In no-mans-land, their charge became a crawl,
And in the mud they cursed the German swine;
They lined them up and shot them on the wall.

The Germans countered, swiftly taking all
The captured and the wounded to a mine;
Young men in France would clamber to that call:
They lined them up and shot them on the wall.

it was on a hill of a clever neighborhood
the errant flow well guised beneath the clay
upon reach of the summit
she is all that can be held
her pull far too magnetic
her skin, akin to milk poured by Luna
her hair is the black of midnight
on the eve of the new moon
she sits facing inquiry with her injured one facing her
on a rounded copper colored chair
placed curbside
Sophia speaks then
a monotone misgiving
that pours out
as a sly pompous
indifference

The crowd fades away
As chords in every melody
Rings in our ears,
And shivers downs in our body
It vibrates in every muscle
A musical fusion
Almost everything didn’t matter
It’s you, me and the beating rhythm
The graceful posture
The sway of every gesture
It’s a motion adventure.

Feeling the adrenaline pulsing through
Pervading the entity
Beating rhythm pounding, it electrifies the body
into graceful art, emancipating the sound of the music
Captivating the mind, liberating the young, reckless soul
covertly hidden inside an indifferent exterior

A freeing beauty
of movement to the rhythm
A therapy to the mind and body.
Dancing to the music,
feeling every tune
every beat
every breath of every movement,
with Explosions of Euphoria