The wild thing

The ones lost in the dews on the grass,

or the grays of the skies, listen close.

Tame not the souls which run for the beauty, 

tame not the skies which govern the schools of imaginations.

O for there is a man sleeping outside the Sunbeam

He is time's best masterpiece , gray beard and the long stick.

he sleeps at night outside the hotel of the bloated,

of the sons who could afford dreams.

He was sleeping in the corner, in the cold.

He sees no winters moor, he sees no message in the stars.

I walk up to him thinking he is in need of money,

woken from his sleep he folds his hands and signals me to leave.

I look at him for i know not what else to do,

and he is off, to his own world.

A Stick a blanket and no slavery from buck or bread,

Then the words of Lawrence come rushing in,

"I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself.

A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough

without ever having felt sorry for itself"

O the ones lost in dews,

Beauty is misery's sweet song

walk the wars , walk the woods

and as you walk , just sing along.