He’s sick with all that he’s seen
So he stays in bed for 3 weeks
He doesn’t miss his friends
who spray art in the alleyways
and get high from
too much coffee
and mass hysteria

From his window he watches
the endless stream
of metal and gasoline
He writes down his dreams,
both sleeping and waking
He hears two songs
of sadness
and softness
and silence

Like an artist, August descends
down into his lonely den
He hides underground
deep in the realm of
Reverberant sound
Where music seeps
through the walls
Where time is gone