There was a dream in metropolitan country sides, streams of gold and patterns on the highways,
simple explanations for white lines and nine-to-fives:
where elevator musicians sat beside a broken bass guitar and wrote a note of miniature glory;
where commercial jungles paved the way for artist to create and allowed mechanic masters to hurry home to closet faith;
where gods looked up instead of down to approve and mesmerize the followers in children and in sickness, in youth and lost forgiveness;
where every child born birthed a smile on an empty face with hopes of growing yellow teeth and hollow eyes in the mask of recessive, made-to-fit jeans;
where picket fences forever lay exposed to modern demons and the grass stains forever stay, never fit to fade away;
where paper envelopes spoke teh lines of sick resistance and the hurt of pain and paper-clip-cuts that hold lives together to rip them apart;
where common sense is secondary to falsified redemption and a simple sorry takes away the glowing flames of fury;
where angels lie in cardboard boxes on city sidewalks praying for a coin and a drink, asking for mercy in the genius eye, wandering from oppression in circles of free thought;
where...just where, is this place when my eyes roll to the back of my head in a dream so far from a dream?