The daily rousing
of the street’s sacred
They are the rustic drifters
that migrated to the city streets
where the lights don’t fade, and the air breathes heavy.
But don’t be fooled by the boozy ignorance
and their cowardly fights,
It’s an itch that’s too often scratched
cold, dry.
it’s that feeling,
so far in
just gonna keep on going,
gone.
The seasons change
in the short span of a day
onlookers astonished by their
precocious adaption
to the harsh terrain
The street bumpkins
forge connections
amidst the cobwebs and stone
only to be beat and left behind
by the city kids that roam
those who’d already nestled within these pits
so long ago
‘We’re taking back what’s ours’,
they yelled
then tore through the streets
no care in the world
for what they just stole