by R.E. Ford
Paint the portrait of myself, mirrored idleness in unclear logic,
beg for the night, move through the day, haunted in slumber,
I think this is the moment where I flourish.
Maybe there’s someone out there with tip toed regard towards
mimicked sentence bliss, but who knows.
Really this is just a time to roam in semi-freedom with work
clinging to the week days while weekends plead remarkable
on their quests with intolerable morals of a made man.
Somewhere that’s what leads a life of easy tides, gains
momentum, builds character in silly play of words,
in mortal days with hooligans living in the suburbs.
How come you never mentioned that relevance was
just a corridor inside my mind where I can run to
when it stops making sense, but still here we stand,
here we know the rise will come.
Going forth in a coffee coma, laughter in the truck,
laughter in the bars, this is where I lay in trial.
Switch from cynical to romantic to painfully delayed
but swift in the early morn tracing steps day in and day out.
Come with me, take a ride, slip into the working class.
Hear the world imagine the dream, watch the difference,
dream, dream, dream…

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