I am walking, stepping, strolling, moving.
I am traversing the beaten path,
Passing by crowds of faces;
All of which are unfamiliar to me.
Full of hollow people.
People who would hope
If hope were left in them.
The bleeding hearts, the optimists,
The idealists, the revolutionaries,
They fall to the Real.
They are beaten, abused,
Crushed, and buried by life.
And rightly so…
So-called realists are no more
Than moody optimists.
But a true realism creates no façade.
A true realism precludes happiness,
For there is no happiness,
I walk in the rays of
And see the dregs, the bores.
And sense the pain, the desperation.
Know the regret, the uselessness,
The complacency, the hatred
And the inability to affect that
Which could be changed.
So have these faces.
That haunt the streets of my town.
That make up the practical,
Real, truly human experience.
I am they, and they are I.
And so we march in solidarity,
Solidarity amongst strange persons.