a sort-of beat poem
Slung out and sleep deprived,
We thrive,
On black gold brewed
by a child with a smile.
Corporate America we’re drifting through
like atoms without cause
or meaning to
reach some destination,
of no relation.
A pair of people,
who care,
prepare the location,
somewhere,
that we’re drifting toward,
assured,
that we travel closer.
Home and hearts entwined,
with sense unwind
the road we travel on,
too long gone,
But not as one.