We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies—
The Heroism we recite
Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp
For fear to be a King—
By Billie Daddario
Walking the streets are the walking dead.
They walk the streets, giving nothing back.
Taking it all in. Giving no joy nor pain.
They just walk by and by.
These people are easy to spot.
They’re not restless
They don’t want change
No upending the apple cart
No weekend trips to Spain
These are the people dead in the head
They go along just to get along as long as they aren’t asked to move one iota.
It’s easy to die in the head and still be walking around
It’s easy to like what we have
It’s easy not to want something more
Something different, something better by far.
It’s easy to see when you’re young it’s harder when you are old.
And you’ve learned that really it’s all quite the same.