You’re the dreamer.
The poet and the pauper.
A scratch just waiting to be itched, an unlit matchstick and a patch half stiched.
You are the computer’s late night glow,
the ink that flows,
from ideas in code.
You are community owned.
You are the keyboard taps and headphone beats.
Evolution for free.
Fighting for the peaceful dream.
You are the words of change and the winds of rage.
The shadows that skulk in the street.
You are the heaven that heckles hell, the bellowing of the brittle bell.
But they can’t break your bones cause they’re the echoing of our souls.
You are the half finished manuscript, the crescendo before the storm.
You see through their lies and live out our lives.
You are the positive patterns of our neurons.
You are the death cry of white dwarves.
The picture of perfection made pure by repeat,
the flowers that bleed through the cracks in concrete.
You are the hopeful birdsong at morning’s first light,
the cradle of the night,
and freedom’s plight.
You are the mirror we all look into when we’re lost
and the cycles we’re chained to when we’re not.