A Dead Man's Mantra

Somewhere, in some nameless, faceless city, an old blind beggar tells all the secrets of life, but nobody listens

I want to listen
To the crackheads and wine-o's, the wise men forced to sleep in boxes
To all the children who know their generation is fucked, to the adrenaline junkies and to the psychotics who scream at walls

I want to talk to the man who holds the “End is Nigh” sign
To all the artists who took their own lives
And to all the people who said they had enough and went to live in the woods, and in the desert, and in the freezing cold

I want to read the incomprehensible writing painted on subway trains
The scribbles on bathroom stalls, the graffiti that adorns the walls of abandoned buildings
And books long since burnt

I want to see the fire in the eyes of mental patients
The ice in the stare of a convicted killer
And the beauty in the gaze of so many homeless female poets

I want to hear the roar of senseless riots and looting
Every song ever played by street side musicians
And all the eulogies for those who died alone

I want to feel the sun in Tangiers and the Siberian cold
I want the Vietnamese ocean against my skin once more

I want to be alive again