, * ? ! .

pause, and remember.

it was like this. a man, sitting on the corner,
trying to find words to express his frustrations
but finding none adequate he was left only with
rages and he gave away his soul to have someone
listen. the torn and drenched pages that represent
his mission to make you remember the
story he tells
float away in the deluge of missplaced intentions
and disregard of the warnings given. and here
he is, homeless, and all anyone can say is he's black
and looting, and his stories are lost under presumption.

how many tales of adventure, quite true, have we lost in
our modern age?

with there be anything left - with God and myths deceased-
for the future historians to remember? our will we be passed
over as another dark age
an age of wars and foolish regrets
where none have a name?