These streets seem lavish— with lights pinning shadows in an unfair match,
With backs laden by laughter and untested loyalty the same,
With candy red pickings from an unmarred batch,
Within a town that vouches for, and against, its name—
There is little beauty in perfection’s flack!
Find life's true wonders, in the lavish streets’ crack.
These streets— unharmed by mans’ clumsiest step,
Binds and brews perfection until it ruins his pep.
With streets so alike, alone, and in similar fashion
There is man; stunned, confused, chasing his own screams.
Yet folly wears within the root of mans’ passion
In finding perfection, man holds less than what seems.
Yet these scars of mine—
Trailing my skin in a splintered stroke—
Map journeys of flames and sentence the smoke.
These scars are art, going around, and against, straight line.
And these streets cheat turns. But still, in comfort, a player,
Driving false blessing, distances his soul from prayer.
These scars are lessons earned, in victory and loss,
Not the likes of wisdoms
stolen bought from deceptive vendor
There are treasures calling from the endless dross!
Assume you’ve a loss, cherish a splendor.
And the lavish streets’ crack, a self-portrait so true
Within this fissure, bleeding color; my brush— my scars.
We, the untouched, broken pieces! Form the world anew!
Paint the unchanging night, break the space between stars!
Yes, there is beauty in perfection— a beautiful lack—
Find what is worth missing, in the lavish streets’ crack.