Sitting on the bridges,
resting in the middle
of it and the night,
talking of life's plight,
watching the cars pa** by,
cutting the night
like swords of light.
Sitting in cubicles,
cold dark and bare,
like a monk's cell,
where hearts open and swell,
whose occupants plead
and of their lives tell,
removing their soul shell.
Sitting together
quietly and vibrantly
in a moment of their lives,
sitting on hard dry edged knives
where they are full of life,
in times when the spark thrives
and recording so memory survives.
Sitting together,
in closed compartments
within vehicle moving so fast
where comfortableness is castle,
on shifting and unsure waves,
dulled by long hours of a staring repast,
driving down the road sure to last.
Sitting on barstools
in the crowd's middle,
pretending to listen over the roar,
there in body while sprits soar,
separated into two,
yet keeping an open door
where can we be sharing more.
Sitting together,
telling of pain and tears,
and woes and sorrows,
yet also of dreamed tomorrow's
of the time of the arising,
of heroes to fight inner foes
and defeat emotional lows.
Sitting together
in places of mutual interests
and the theater or the game.
It is all the same
where two souls gather,
friendship is the name
and one beside one is the aim.