Under the Spanish bloom,
and beneath the perpetual sky,
a young boy walked with a girl.
She was struck by the beauty of it all;
the gentle breeze and the subtle ease
of the night. The boy was less pleased, though
and continued to stride, his pride effervescent
in the bland moonlight.

Under the winter bleached trees,
and beneath the star spangled sky,
the girl was alone now, crying.
She was hit by the sense of loneliness
that she found curled below the undergrowth
like the runt of a litter or an injured mammal.
She was injured now, that’s what she told
everyone else, anyway.

Under a spineless, leafless tree,
and beneath a white, all white sky,
a boy sits with a hole in his heart
and a gap in his speech.
It crumples up in him like
a poignant piece of painted cloth.
Like a prayer mat or something.

When you were broken into
one million pieces, I had to pick
up the million and first piece,
to make sure I had you back.

Today, on the streets of NYC
or London, I passed a future president
in his stride, and I passed a disgraced
soldier, discharged for discharging
a round of ammunition on his friend,
I passed a man whose uncle was
Neil Armstrong, and a woman whose
face was drenched in acid by
an evil ex-boyfriend.
I was walking along the Champs Elysees,
today, when I smiled at a man who
is a relative of Gustav Eiffel, perhaps
even his grandson, or more. He was wearing
a suit, a normal, plainly dressed man
blending in.
Today, as I wandered past the skyline of
Vancouver, Chicago, Shanghai, a little girl
cried, and cried and cried. She’s to become the
scientist to cure cancer, the common cold,
or more. She has blonde pigtails and a giant
pink ribbon in her hair.
Underneath the Japanese bloom,
the leader of a gang stopped in front
of me to admire the white blossom,
and I did the same. Perhaps we
shared a word or two, me not knowing this man’s
crime. He not knowing mine.

Underneath all bloom in all the world,
seven billion future presidents,
seven billion disgraced soldiers,
descendants of astronauts,
acid scoured people,
seven billion Mr or Mrs Eiffels,
seven billion cancer curers,
and mob leaders walk their walk
and talk their talk.
No beacon shines upon them
and no beacon ever will.

People are so scared to be forgotten that they engrave there name on benches beside the words "in memory of" as if in some way they may live on through metal plastic and wood. In a room full of strangers is anyone themselves? Maybe just everyone. Yourself is unattainable when surrounded by others. A tree is pure and strong until it is climbed and chopped. Many would rather the abuse instead of solitude. To be alone is not lonely, it is full. To be full is lonely unless it is shared. To share a mere sliver leaves two hungry stomachs. Instead, remain in solitude until bliss and self reliance is achieved. Once you can be alone with no guilt or burden, then you are ready to open your veins to the blood of another.

This little bag I hope will prove
To be not vainly made —
For, if you should a needle want
It will afford you aid.
And as we are about to part
T'will serve another end,
For when you look upon the Bag
You'll recollect your friend.

So I want to hear why,
The devil is a bad guy,
Doesn't he punish evil-doers?
But I don't want to hear
That he's the good guy.
He's an Ordinary guy,
A guy with bad and, well,
Good qualities

Defined by image is a man
With red hands
Also defined by image is a man
With invisible yet almighty hands

Defined by truth is an Ordinary guy