Which faithful boulevard can you roam in this city of lost dreams?
Which promise isn’t sealed with a celluloid kiss?
Which ocean, which feather, which ghost?
Which moon, which marquee, which tombstone?
Which dwelling have you built from sinew and sweat?
Which passing of time doesn’t leave cobwebs on the body clock?
Boulevards where we strive and thrive beyond the barely alive. Where we stake our claim, rewarded with more than just pocket change from a gold rush mirage.
A song, a garden, a salvation. A goodness, a grace, a sky-blue smile.
A skeleton key that’ll unlock well-being’s fortune and not the grave.
RichRant 