New Poem

quincyk

We are the replication young men,
who used to chase the many pavements, dead in heat
who knew the lines that knew our face, long before its very cracks healed our wounds

We are the old young men,
who launched our boundless bones over broken walls into the sea, carelessly
that knew the crests upon which we'd fall, long before the sound did come

We are the bitter-heart young men,
attached to ruin, though it blights our landscapes, covered in solitary vine
whose dream-scenarios stir in quiet minds, an age before the first flame did ignite

We are the fractured-smiled young men,
who ran from door to door with pride, howling to the hanging moon
before skipping lightly over streets so wild, long before they had a name

We are the dislocated young men,
stuck to seats in cheap bars at night, arguing over song
manipulating the time that comes, long before we realise our home

We are the tired young men,
a thousand lifeless wishes weighing us down, wriggling on our broken knees
traipsing to and fro behind lazy eyes, long before they open up.