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Faint voice,
I have not forgotten
thee,

teach me what you
know, of men and beggars,
women and harlots,

for this pen bleeds
in thy name,

unrecognizable to label,

claim this independent
without guise,

as incandescent as the
last words spoken on
brisk nights,

through the lips of weary
travelers requesting cigarettes
and a moment of clarity,

though I would rather worship
those who indecently expose
wounds to open air,

and let bravery sting
clean through,

like that of salt
and vinegar in the protest
of dreamers refusing the
convenience of water,

think of I in your graces,

from weak knees trembling
to common pigeons,

living bravely with confidence
and poise,

gambling survival on proverbial
crumbs with nothing to lose,

yet everything to gain.