Old Soul

Going against the grain of this street

with my hood down, though it’s raining.

I’m not a hustler, I whisper,

as you go bustling by.

And it’s not a race,

but somehow I’m slipping.

Still shifting gears with my left hand.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m an old soul.

Sent back to have another go.

But these neon strips, street and headlights

are too bright for eyes like mine.

Mine seem made for dawn, the day, evening fires.

And when they close to sleep

my ears stay open, for the ringing

of a billion binary voices

bleeding from the machine beside my bed.

And now the trees have their roots in concrete.

Their leaves compete in a capital canopy.

Cut us all down, count our rings,

see year on year growth, fiscal and physical.

But I am weak. I feel thin.

What a time to be living in, we say.

But I blink and the time has passed me by.

The clocks would have a third hand

if they still had faces. I don’t understand.

I was born late, among all of this

but I find myself lost, adrift,

spinning, though I’m standing still.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m an old soul.

Don’t hang up. I’ll hang on.

Someday, they’ll find a way

to make this weary world turn slow.

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