Maybe we're making ourselves upset,
sitting in cubes of air
conditioned to make us feel sick,
racing back and forth
in our poisonous bugs,
and I'm thinking

One day you'll find me sitting
in a green field on a busy motorway,
singing the blues and talking to clouds, looping dead daises into a chain,  
thinking about gypsies
in their little world of colour,
trapping their secrets inside caravans,
laughing at the rest of you who
race to the end of the world, daily,
eyes to your cars and the concrete.
I'm thinking

One day I'll be standing
in the middle of that field again,
under skies black, void of mercy,
wondering why everyone left so soon,
taking in gulps of poisonous air,
flashbacks to the pieces of history
I'll have to keep to myself.

*Maybe we're making ourselves upset.