A poem to myself for George's Birthday
The torches light and allure the city lights with them
Breaths dissolve from the venetian blinds at war
I'm staring at them from the outside lusting to get inside,
where the opportunists give birth to ideas.
We chase the ephemeral and it's the people
that get in front of us, the mountains
oh' the mountains bent
You see brothers in the streets
with their greasy hair laughing
I know twins that met eachother by luck
not at birth, but, at concerts.
On days like these, we would wish them
even if it's not today.