Art was the revolt of the free
Who ran naked and liberated down the streets as the air ran
through the knees up out through their butts, ears, and mouth
The street lights blew shattered underneath the screams when
they blasted the sleeping zombies tucked tightly in their sheets
They were the ones who said their freedom drew them to the
fire like moths to the inescapable flame
Ignited by open spaces and horses that stomped in the wet
dirt with wild quickness
Huffing and puffing through their nostrils they smelt the
crisp cold air as their former selves were visible to them in the breaths they
once drew
Rain began to drop on them then pour then monsooned sweeping
them away uncontrollably to a plain not many see in the end of their time
To where tress covered them from the beating heart so fast
of modernity that pulls you in
A black hole never sucked so hard as this retched beast of
innovation
No grass was so soft like fur from pelts taken from the
roamers who once placed their heads where mine and my brothers and sisters laid
down
No scene was ever so free
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