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Here lay conduct in the face of whim,
Therein contained within reason:

                                       Caught between stimuli,
                                       Crossed eyes, legs alike
                                       only to be caught singing
                                       to the rhythm of the bugle call.

Lines written three blocks from the pawn shop,
We catch ourselves in flight, within our right
To have these wings of doubt and shame,
All the while, tapping away at zeroes and ones
Hoping to derive emotion, fetishize apathetic
 Dream after
   Dream after
     Dream after
Gray concrete walls, six by eight in size and weight
In our scales of old, of feathers, of hunger,
of a burning passion in this tired man's eyes,
While the pitter patter of dewdrops high
Drown out the mantra of a physician's sigh:

"White, white snow in the valley low,
All well with smatterings in tow
Of might and mind and of ocean's flow,
Whilst padded walls keep all we know."