Lanes for the seekers who
Stand over the shades
Of our joy
Go on for miles
Pretty harmless but cold.

Buildings and trains,
Screams and horns,
People falling off their bicycle 
People dying for their sport
People toying with their bloodline.

Trees overlooking houses
Husbands beating their spouses 
Books staring at heads and palms
And open space,
Some poets searching for rhymes
Some not.

Something’s up with the wiring
And with the politics
Maybe with the land
Probably not with a hand reaching out 
For something more than 
Another hand.

And over our shades they speak
With a haze they leave behind
Pieces, densely filled up to a full,
Showing no signs of regret.

People wanting specific people
People mourning over the seeming 
end of a sham.

We stand still 
facing the sun,
Paving the way for more 
Suffering and cruelty
Inherited by some.

Maybe there really is nothing wrong
About a hand reaching out
for another,
Wanting more than what is said.