"the thunderstorm children still run free"

even when right and wrong no longer matter
and the idol of perfection lies shattered,
the words, though blurted and broken,
mean so much more than ever.

though the city may raise up
all its skyscrapers and chimneystacks to menace us,
its highways and onramps as fences to our bare feet,
will we stop believing? doubting? singing?
or will we join our grubby hands,
to walk with our beliefs, our doubts, and our songs?
for then the buildings of downtown will part before us
and we will make our way through this madness.

we won't care if they see us
running off to somewhere beyond,
and screaming to them our defiance,
"you'll never take us alive, you bastards!"

where, then...
in that unmapped place,
where we'll wake up
after finally touching down?

we'll walk in the fields and forests
with new things found along the way:
a little loss,
a little melancholy,
a little wisdom...
a little peace.