Cicada man

I sit.
Hearing the cicada sing.
As velvet night wraps me in,
A blanket of solitude,
And crowns my head,
With fireflies.
Slowly the tears pour out.
Memories churned,
Silence remembered,
Hopes turned to ash,
Like the cigarette,
Poised over my arm.
But then there is a breeze.
Still cicada churns my stomach,
Squeezing more acid out,
To burn,
Better than that cancer stick.
Still my head swims,
But you are lost,
Never there,
And so I sing,
Rage against cicada,
How encouragement,
Is not the same as love,
But comes from greed,
And fear,
And cowardice.
Maybe when you,
Are born,
Back to the being,
You deserve to be,
And say hello,
The hardest word.
Till then?
Well I shall sit,
Hear the cicadas rage,
And then,
Who knows.
I will not wait,
But should you choose,
I’ll meet you on the road,
And give you chance,
Enough to say again,
Listen to your tales,
Break bread with you,
And we shall see,
How sings your song.



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