I walked hands in pockets,
Suitcase in car driving home,
Travelled from ideal star-wrinkled sky
Away from sick ugly egos
Their hands in their pockets.
At home no job; a big ache whole
Great memory stole my life from me.
And the young-aged sun shelved spoke:
“You've got venom. I need a smoke.”
And unless peace a war with peace
Shall fix calm again and again,
Then unstoppable wild motions
Untame me like mad ugly egos
Ma bohéme the rested the bare-feet
Chalky skin concrete smelling in stains of grass lavander and mint,
So no where to walk now
I will travel again with my ego somehow.
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