Under Your Soles

With that slow stroll, you own the street, under your soles, lies the souls of broken hearted blues, wafting through the palm, the horns, the traffic, begging for attention, jealousy, silent rage, but eyes stare, right at you, at the back of your cocked head, causally taking a drag,  if only we knew you stroll into oblivion, but maybe we do and we just can not stand to see our truth, that maybe, just maybe we always knew, and the coyote lurks, how could we forget, how could we forgive, the broken planes, the doors removed, the mind gone mad, the liquor pure, the night wasted with gold coins and dock side conversation about the cosmos and the divine, and the, the, nothing but pure honest self imposed grandeur under the stars of which you have been named, under the moon that sits with a blush, also in awe, in awe of the fairness and youth, the yearning, the pull, the tide, the silent screams pouring out from within, but its all but a flash and nuclear memory from which no Phoenix will rise, instead the sun will set on the Hollywood Hills, and off you will go to join the others whom wait for a bus that will never arrive, why wait, you stroll, and continue to stroll in the self assured fearless gaunt, taking a drag, as though you were sucking in god and exhaling as you let her go, because to hold onto to her is to die, but you will anyway, and we knew, and we watched as you casually walked away, we were afraid to follow, and you we afraid to stay.