If a boy can chew on his tongue
and grit his teeth for warmth from cold,
can he grind his soul
and out of it brew the path that'll lead him home?

What if he loses care for peeping eyes,
kicks feet to the rhythm of his soul,
conjures smiles as his dances to instinct's strings,
will his offerings be pleasing?

What if the streets forget to dance
when he pipes and flutes about?
How can a boy know his root
if at 50 he's still a youth?

I only wonder how much peril he can seduce,
the much fear his core can induce,
how rare it seems to perceive the obvious, 
'cause with the fleeting moment he loses focus.

See, time floats above water like an abandoned boat,
one with the tide that leads not home.
He's the water, he's the boat
Soon he'll hang on lips like 'grandpa'

Yet 'never' is no real word. 
Even the feeblest of arms can aim skyward
and weakest of limbs can ride again
but only when the right choice is darted at the heart.

How would these be?
Boy knows nothing about himself
save the label he wears around his ear,
a name no one remembers
He first must find himself

Let me guess, he knows this old song? 
He needs not a bard or ancient journal to point destiny.
Obviously pretending to be in a constant search 
but surely know the chest lies within his chest.

- Mark Light & Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu

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