Randomology #2...

Her lips paint the dream that keeps repeating. Her eyes are full, like full moons, & pretty, like lilies. Her hair whips my face like nine tails, I bet her soul could hammer nails. And in the full moon of May, it could flower in soils barren.

What this may warrant is nothing to the next man on the street. Souls are beat, & the meat of their feet helps them leap, & climb steep, but they don't know. The man on the train, tucked his laces in & smiled, but he wasn't fooling. His eyes were sad & lonely, not to mention his ragged tweed. His energy was lost & wandering the outskirts of nowhere places. In his youth he had broken chains & swallowed rains, stomped through mud & given up. But it's different now, because he's had enough.