walking, we all seem to talk:
one block, through, I’m a king—
street-signs highlight my subtle hues—
the next, I’m a peddling peasant,
a pawn, but who’s playing this game—
I know where my queen is, but in this city
who’s winning, pinning this on me—
that I (have) to compete with unruly men
and their so-called sky-scrapers—
but barely touching me in my home—

just who’s all alone here, but moving
in place, too fast to tell hell is where
the start is when the heart is cut, gone.
so I see it as a hub, not a connection,
but proof of one, bit by bit, line by line,
soul by soul through the honest times—
otherwise I’m unwise, and call her joy in it
out for what it’s worth, trodden earth.
I love it, I do, but for who—you might know
once you see the view, across the river though.

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