Were you privileged growing up, or
a wrong side of the tracks kind of
you slip through the cracks,
asleep under city eyelids,
running heavy mileage,
too paranoid to relax?
There is a lit candle for every sorrow
shining from every part of the world,
every day, all the time. They wait for
darkness, need the darkness to glow,
brick by rhetoric befalls its carcass.
May they bury their weary rainbow.