Another day/on return

I saw the Indian boy run
down the underpass
he slipped from day to night,
that boy showed me we're all running, all slipping through an underpass moving from light to dark.

The slope chased him away,  giggling at his unease,   
forcing him to submit,
submission is a daily roast
its our common bond
that strange bullied boy and I.

Go strange in your ways
you carrier of the ebullient,
you giddier of my will,
go tumbling into maturity,
into obscurity.

I wonder if he's still running, abandoning structure
and just bellowing out his unease.

My future lays tightly coiled
it's in the dust of that boy,
that Indian so far from the warm,
so unsafe, so unknown,
so tormented by the brisk hand,
so bullied by the company.

I wish I could show like him
just run forever in a frieze of my nature.

Another trip back

Living in my time is a coloured theme. Mescaline in a field seems such a joy like the young boys eating mushrooms by the school swimming pool, while i'd sit oblivious at home.

There they flound, asymmetric lines, pubesent aisles of quickened pulse. There goes the loosened thought, the ripening thunder, boys your galloping on.

Hello burrowed self You be the boy of sheltered crawl, alone to wonder, saved for the day, to one day dream of afternoons in different perceptions.

Now we're just shadows of the men we wanted to be. Our young bodies drifting on ether, catching winds of summer bombs, forgetting the triumph we made of it all.