Quiet. Too quiet. Random cars.
I can hear a train thumping in the distance,
and the staring, unblinking stars
are my only witnesses.
My balcony is my cell, my prison,
and the way to freedom where I breath smoke,
every night here is a self-treason.
I'm a lonely criminal, but a lenient judge.
These several feet under open sky
have been my country for so long
that here is where I want to die
now, or after a cup of tea.
Wars happen here, blood feuds:
reason fights against heart.
Gifting evils, trading goods,
I am the only citizen.
The country is torn apart
between what I do and what I wish I'd done,
reign is a tricky art
that I am no good at.