To the one

To the odd numbered one
The nineteen and sevens
The one who falls short
To the lime colored
The one who always stands
To the lefts
Right aren't always write

To the mistaken
The left behind
To ownership and hustle
Broken mirrors and wrong cuts
To the barren street lights
The orange in reds

Patched feet, patched grounds
Singing mountains and whistling trees
Singing rust of corrugated gates
Closed on appearance, closed on oneness
Closed to barred kings, disowned queens
I hear them too

Voices of bloodied pits
Caves of colored bones
I see them too
Static shadows of the famished
Wondering bars of hopelessness
It's just aren't right it's wrong
Ringing sweat of the bread-less
Taste it, smell it, spice of thieves

To the odd one
Who finds comforts in dancing stars
Backward letters and random samples
In improbabilities of travelling stones
Seeking solace in the soles of the buttered
Seeking solace in mad houses and battle fields

To those who finds conformity idiotic
Find solace in the chaos of your thoughts
Normalcy is abhorrent