They march the streets barefoot,
Fluffing and fisting pillows against the wind,
“We’ve been dreaming,“
They announce to huddled strangers at a bus stop.
Passing over them like bees, teenagers, airplanes.
The pillows were innocent bystanders,
Now they are ammunition, imaginary drums and tambourines.
Exchanging rhythms and handshakes of anarchy,
They have no commitment to religion or a family,
They are not missed or punished if found out of place,
All they have is a skin they never chose,
To live and pass time with.
We watch from inside our houses,
Debating Courage or Catastrophe?
Drinking Decaf, lifting weights,
As it snowed feathers and cotton around us,
Balance was lost and people forgot the rush,
Which had pursued them for years .
I am watching an image of a torn pillow on the television,
Vomiting and disappearing at the feet of strangers,
The violence of the scene made me edgy, heartbroken,
This was the freedom nobody believed in.
