Philadelphia warlords slip sideways in a cantankerous bed of grout.
The mind denies what the body acknowledges
in its treacherous games of hope and wait.

Quickened footsteps beat mercilessly on the pavement in a forward-backward pattern
that helps no one and speaks to shadows,
yet sacred bloodlust and cramping desire
provide an outlet for the city lying at his feet.

Only a fool speaks softly in a time of war.

Rebellious minds harbor fugitives in the explosive hour of the darkening sun
Allowing wandering eyes and covered whispers
towards holy crosses, ***** on a distant lawn.

Dark faces and shortened noses appear at twilight to provide refuge
from the "war goin' on outside"
taking our own
and beating them senseless with shoe-polished silverware
and books on secret societies.

Yet aside from the divine and acknowledged kinship between us
lie two drunken, disorderly dreamers
with false hope of vows and six-digit salaries
buried beneath violent shouting over fragile egos.