Her son walks Seven Mile
And the distance increases by the day
From through the lit rings of bruting progress
The ripped barren architecture
The distant hums
Are not enough for joy
Or any forsaken satisfaction.
She locks a forsaken barrier
And sleeps on a forsaken hope.
The news beyond fuels jokes
In the minds of suburban classrooms.
Her family is mocked, and the rest,
By friends building decline.
The other classrooms, they aren't.
They've already gone. Done,
Though She wills to herself otherwise.
The proxy reigns broken.
Rain dribbles on through to her.
She, Faceless, Nameless, knows no net.
But I hope to weave one from within
The expanding unbroken dim.
I shall board a ship
Take my place and watch the eclipse
And prepare to fish in its midst.
It will be night,
But one may not progress in the bright.
The bright leaves no more life
To crack open and ignite.
I will bait the net with brightness
And the ideas will hopefully resonate in abyss,
Draw forth the citizenships.
Breach their tired wariness
And dig into the mind's recess.
If I snatch her up and create
A spark-- no, perhaps a fresh unsoiled slate
And mark all over it with turning and change.
The slate is a mirror and I'll watch it conflate
Hers and Mine, Ours, One feeling of relate.
Her change becomes mine, innate.
A transformation occurred within the roads, the sea
Of new and mostly old, of loss and pity
The miles are not so troubling indeed
Now that the distance is conquered inside we agree
The feeling spreads to every bone that we be
Now let her be a vessel, drift off and see
If she can't catch her own new vessel and be the city.