you are not a grid as you were asked to be
so simple it would be to turn in the direction of home.
towards an oasis, at the center there is a garden
flourishing with scripted ideas, titles have been read and read
by others they grow the ground as if it has been untouched by created things.
sidelined are the bodies, fertile but undisturbed by adjoining skin
left to find their way through the crowded streets, millions speaking in passages
in intersecting roads and the patterns of skylines, these borders play with daydreams
unspoken outside of the architecture of the wandering mind.
I return home in this daydream and all is as it should be, skin to skin
speaking the words that walked the winding roads of the city
hearing those of others as they contemplate what may never be.
the symbols drop reminiscent of the footsteps that have marked the ground
I know I have walked these roads before though they seem young
possibly built for a perfect world.