They've abandoned Their comfy-boxes, with the triangles on the tops --
Now, they only sit down here, to feed the pigeons: New friends. But still
They question... wanting to ask, if this is a fool’s paradise, to the nobodies.
Why does it seem so... dull? Maybe, They are just the hangovers.
Ashes, after getting butt-kicked; Leftovers from the autumn leaves:
They hang, They dry, They wither, Away, carried, unfortunately.
Sometimes, They make these faces; drowning in them. Tears remembered skin-lotions.
But hope is a shallow puddle, trying to avoid being stepped on, by gazing eyelashes.
But no one sees: Their struggle is frail; Their envy is a calm breeze.
Subtly, jumping on people, stunning them, with wild eyelids: Crossing.
Passing. Thinking. Hoping. Nothing, maybe. Next time. Maybe, next time,
perhaps two closed lips will speak, to deaf hands: to two deaf hands,
inside deep pockets. But they just keep mingling, beside dancing silver circles,
not wanting to converse, or share, or give, or send, anything. Really, anything.
His tears tried to smile, inside his broken heart. "Quiet now,”
Whispered the bandages from his open guitar-case. "Be still".