monksta

We stare at those silver haired hippies waving their eyes back and forth,
walking hand in hand on these trails washed with water,
and we stop so you can tie knots into shoes
and i notice for the first time, how much i've fallen into
a lake of perfect blue water and i'm not scared of drowning

there are these cracks in concrete three stories above
that i've been staring at since we woke up
and i've convinced you or maybe you convinced me
that each one holds a history that no one will ever see
of tenants and remnants and different architectures
they whisper to each other everything new that's found

those well oiled old men wheel themselves to a stop light with a smirk and a frown, yapping at each other to get on with it,
before rolling further downtown,
and we stop under this brazen one-eyed monster peering north to south,
and push the right button to walk on,
he peers through his half closed eye
as we stumble over a piece of street that he's seen
hundreds before do the same
and he winks.

a rusted door, we walk up to, and open,
our hands trembling as we crawl up those steps
and i show you all these photos of events of records
that you could care less about, care more about,
and you kiss me once, just to make sure
that all this time, we weren't dreaming of hippies,
of peace, of love
and i forget these words, i forget these pictures,
history is all about the cracks that went unrecorded.