The traffic was moving slowly,
With everyone listening to the same station,
Looking from one car to the next,
Seeing out past the back of each others skulls,
Beatnik priests,
In tattered regalia,
Dance with boards of wood,
Everyone wants to be someone else,
Why am I me,
Why aren't I?
Sometimes I feel predetermined
because it is rightfully biological,
to be unsatisfied with my soul,
eternally,
until I leave my prison,
or become enlightened,
when a voice rings out,
booming across the brozed moon,
whispers then falls silent,
a dazy haze of everything.