I am but another of those
cigarettes in San Francisco’s
singing, silent early streets-
falling from the fire escape
and wrapped in hotel sheets.
When all of life was nothing
but some spinning fiery rings,
and in a time when we had time
to waste on precious things.

Setting deadly streets aglow
in frozen, dancing Chicago-
I am the call of the moon,
the song of night, the howl
of the restless night owl
perched forever out of
place and out of pace,
yet promising forever still
to save our human race.

New York City, lit in name,
but dark and brooding all the same-
let me shine upon your dock
for every weary pilgrim
upon every distant rock,
and for every paper plane
toppling your house of cards-
let us look past our broken hearts,
for we’ve ignored another’s pain.

I too am the merciless, wild lands;
a sea of fire in cupped hands-
and like a vulture for its prey,
I stand along the highway long
as golden starmen play my song.
Unchained, untrained, and undefined;
take the ticket, light the mind.
Breathe me in, be free to see,
for it’s not freedom if it’s blind.