it's been so long since
hitting the streets with poets
my tongue is dry
stumbling on hollered words
looking for answers in tea leaves
at the bottoms of many a drained cup
i never learned this art
but then have i learned any?
i look to the troubadours and find
paths wiped clean by age and dust
(daring us to forge our own
or warning of futility?)
thoughts flit through the wind as ever
don't let me fall too behind
