Everyone lives on an island of their own ridiculous make, And no matter how insignificant they claim a much grander stake. They all shout their thoughts and reveries, their hate and anger, too, Passing judgment on each soul that dares to wander through. Their island is an empire of dime-sized majesty, Where wisdom never comes to those who look like you and me. Only in their image can a person hold some worth, Otherwise be damned and exiled back to mainland earth. So be wary where you moor your vessels in this conscious sea~ For these islands stand as prisons where no dream could e'er be free. Seek instead the larger landmasses where minds are never chained, Where the knowledge grows like fruit, to be savored as it's gained.

In the old town: Sneakers hang from traffic lights as if to say they would have run if they could. If they weren't tethered to this place, and so paired their steps with the sound of airhorns. The sound of trains is the sound of sepia now -- the city turned monochrome. At least a handful I know claim it as their birthright. You can see the last peak highlight of a streak of young hair across its tracks as it stitched itself to the sun. It has reclaimed the light in an old flame's eyes. Maybe we fell in love because we stood before each other as far away, we saw places emanating somewhere in our reflections, but everything open has since sealed itself matte as flowers in wall-paper, stowed away in self-preservation - a garden as prescient as petals pressed between laminates. There is a landscape made in the color-schemes of us cordoned off and arranged just so, and I think a sound might do the same when it can no longer take us where we want to be, how it teams with