Real is the empty promise.
It's the shadow of knowledge,
making contingent ideas for the nostalgic.
The intention, the purpose, the art of life..
Lost.

When you choose to settle for less than what you are.

Reassured by your passion forget all the strife.
Pick up your board and skate away life.

The hoods go up, the bandanas come out.
Their day really starts, when the sun goes down.
Geared up with paint, backpacks are full.
Armed not only with colors, but triggers to pull.

No stops in the stairwell, it's straight to the top.
Hope you grabbed your inhaler, in case of the cops.
The last couple steps are slathered in ice.
Their will to go higher it really entices.

Reaching the rooftop, the flashlights go off.
But the rooftop itself just isn't enough.
Steel rails to trail, the water tower is their peak.
Their names and their tags, voices to speak.

So when the city looks up, from I-75.
Their beacon of art, is kissing the sky.

There was no incandescent light.
The energy was ****** and the bulb itself was rendered useless.
Burnt out.
But some thoughts are effortless and natural.
Some ideas stem from concept.
Open a window and sunshine pours in.
Open your mind and you'll receive much more than sunshine.

A possible proverb.
A lover's tradition.
Initialed and locked.
The key ammunition.
Said to be permanent.
For two love birds glue.
Symbolically secured.
Naturally construed.

I still dream about you.
It's a place we still talk and know one another.
A place where your hand still finds the small of my back,
even in subtle conversation.
I haven't forgotten the depth of your heart or the beauty of your soul.
Though I'm quite certain you'd never find yourself here,
it's still as if you never left.

A bench isn't much of a bench,
when there's no one to have a seat.
Dreams are just dreams,
when reality is said to defeat.

They don't care about what you want,
or care about what you need.
They're looking at your ghost town,
with a need to be freed.

They retreat to where they parked,
just a ways down the street.
The silence is so very loud,
but still remains discrete.

When the colors have faded,
and the fire burns out.
And the people are gone....
you become the drought.