I've seen them

A long time ago on an empty street

With my mom and all the wonder in the world

She dragged me out, ready to cross,

Looking at the walking man.

I will always be there.

A fragment, left in this system;

I get the feeling to this day,

Anticipation, Patience, and a readiness,

Sprung and I have direction,

To cross the road and move a perfect rhythm.

A situation so diametrically opposed to everything else,

Our greater destination of unknown intent

Nothing at all like a crosswalk.

So simple, pure of concept,

But tedious in motion.

And every time I walk those two lines,

See the red clock and subprime lights,

I feel a rejection in me as deep as the memory itself,

My oldest,

Which will always be a part of me.

I have seen them,

as have you,

I have seen them running,

They are the ones that look down at their watches

 Every other minute, calculated,

Blaming the clock for what time it is.

On some level they wish it was over,

The endless track they run,

And infinite but finite circle,

More of a spiral.

They need something to blame.

Something that has prevented them

From being where they think they want to be,

Denying their own trips and stumbles,

That plague them to their core.

They try to stop them all, But regrets run faster,

They look at their watches,

wondering when it will pass them,

And they can stop running track;

When is defeat imminent?

So is it worth it,

To look at the clock displaying the time they already know?

For that’s what I’ve seen.

Their lives are the cycles, two;

Just one more click and one more click,

‘till the hours come full circle.

They know every number they pass,

They have been there before,

Their path’s been mapped out,

By gears they can’t see.

And through this meticulousness, all of it,

I’ve never met a cartographer.

That mythic occupation,

Completely free of artificial cages,

Mapping out the borders of reality,

Filling in the voids through wandering discovery.

I have not seen them for one of two reasons.

Either, the world has been mapped out,

We the people, the masters of our domain,

Know everything.

There is nothing more for us,

But the world we have created.

Or perhaps we have decided,

That our world was too big,

That we’d prefer the voids,

The vagueness, and fear.

The simple crosswalk,

Timed to the second hand of our life,

Over that of the cartographer.

I’ve seen them.

And maybe they made that choice,

But not I.

No I have wondered empty streets at 2 A. M.

Looking for a sign of someone similar.

I have not found one yet.

But I have seen them,

Those who were to slow,

Who stopped running involuntary,

Who are lost because their watch broke.

They know not the time,

And wander t he corridors of this place,

My world, alone at 2 A.M.

I have run these streets, all different

All houses filled with empty dreams of falling,

All marked by numbers, however different they may be,

And I have walked without the crosswalk,

Fearless of these rejects, drunks and addicts,

That I’ve seen.

I cannot be hit.

Or if I am, I will crash into them like an epiphany,

My blood a possession piercing their doped skulls,

And making impossible bounds of logic and freedom.

They will not sleep, they will dream,

Awake, and never hit an alarm clock again.

I’ve seen them,

 But I have yet to save one.

I’ve hardly saved myself.

I was once possessed by a demon,

One of anger, of fear, and of that dark spot,

The one in the back of your mind

That says:

                “Death will find you.”

And makes a tally of your failures,

For you to see anytime and always.

A dark spot crippling to many of them.

This possession led me astray from my empty yellow streets,

And to a door instead,

A door heavy with a door knob reflective.

To this day I know not what lies behind it.

I only know my reflection then,

A scared, lonely man, trying to find himself

Behind a door.

So convinced the world was all in one place,

That it would be unalterably different,

By just turning a knob;

That opening a door,

Or crossing a street;

That waiting for someone to answer,

Or watching a red clock run out

Could create new pathways, people, and identities,

With solid purpose and clarity,

In the day’s light.

That it could be so simple.

So, I reject the crosswalk,

Walk free of watches,

Mourning the cartographer,

No longer looking for doorways to destiny,

Traveling towards my greater destination,

Fearless of them,

Stepping over spirals that lie

In puddles on the ground,

Where I have seen them.