The Town They Called a City

Just as the pyramids would,
In the deserts of Cairo,
Snow-capped mountains gleam distant,
As if Kings on the Main.

This distance complete,
Through the eyes of the beholder,
As from a sea-sided office,
We with watch with wonder lust.

Bright streetlights,
And red lights, and green lights,
And stop signs,
As decadent name-change,
Perceives as if older,
As bigger, as bolder.

Musicians and artists,
Poets and Marxists,
Authors and boxers,
All convene to sing songs,
As egalitarianism,
Sings us a calm, blinded lullaby,
As the idea to be grasped,
In this young mind of mine.

They call this no small town,
In which not one arcade resides;
Gun crime is never,
In percent, as we ride,
A wave of communal,
Small-town "world peace,"
We'll take some money,
Off the governments lease.

In a sense we are distant,
Different, contesting,
A world which conforms,
As if all can and will be,
A slave to a master,
Sociopathic disaster,
As we run faster and faster,
Away from that stream.

We are the masters of our fate,
As we rate the world's hate,
On a scale from 1 to 10.

We are secluded,
Yet unconfused, not diluted;
We are more aware of this world,
Than it is of itself.

We set the sidelines,
As guidelines to life,
As we watch with some bias,
As we remain neutral to strife.

We are the Power,
And we are the River,
Ripped from the main-stream,
We create; we are free.

Dedicated to my hometown of Powell River,
British Columbia,
Canada.