by Fred Wong
I do not reside in my quarters
Dreams are not made in my bed.
I take no comfort on my coach
at my table
at my screen.
I do not belong
on these well treaded halls
I find no peace in order
straight lines atop a twisted plain
bleached eyes on toned down faces
placed in queues
placed in sequence.
Spinning in perfect, chaotic unison.
I learn no love from my friends
Feel no warmth from companionship.
Rubbing shoulders daily
with my brothers
with my sisters
sharing speech, names, and faces.
Bound in blood but not in wine.
I do not receive illumination from light
From sight I discern no sanity or logic
fluorescent bulbs boxed in shadows
they cannot hope to penetrate.
So I head out into the darkness —
On the paths all men pass
yet had never once set foot on.
Among gears scattered in disarray
yet tarrying more than ever
Amidst the masses of uniform colors
yet with eyes, for once, of life and vigor–
Law-fled hands in silent stillness
Exiled voices in melodious song
Restless faces at last in perfect, wondrous peace.
On these streets I find a resting place
for muffled cries of defiance;
As the sporadic chants rise into the night
and string into a hopeful song
And strangers with strange voices
are joint in heart and soul;
As I merge into, and stop to admire
the splendor of a Sea of Light.
I know this city
of which I am proud
is my home.