On a whim.
New words, new week,
old brain, same leak,
rhythm is not movement,
noise is not sound,
all my favorite memories,
are left in he ground.
Last words, last week,
first brain, learn to speak,
beauty is not privilege
and vanity's not all,
power struggle,
status quo,
played out by children in a mall.
New day sun,
collective mist on minds of many,
picket fence peels,
old wound heals,
back still smells like leather.
Full moon sees the thieves,
guides them on their way,
three days up they come down,
feel the ground,
become clay.