shattering glass in the midnight bonfires
flaring purple with the fumes of tin cans and bottle caps.
and with barefeet we were called to run
naked underneath the moon
and howl at the trees;
to walk in packs of hallucinating lunatics
and to reach peaks of mountains where my brothers and sisters
claimed to have found God.

we're the ones that swagger on the sidepath,
sleep in gutters with notebooks and easels
and charcoal. water colours. badly tuned guitars,
rusted tambourines and guttural voices charred by
a thousand cigarette butts,
loosely rolled joints
and handfuls of various powders;
some luxurious and some downright filthy.  

we sleep in forests or on drug dealers floors,
we love like feral animals,
and we dream like cats,
drink like fish,
fly like moths
and drown, drown, drown like sand.

but we refuse to wear a life-vest.