And those of us with average faces
plucking hair strands while running mazes,
taking all the beating of thunderous days,
finding the roads that lead to ways,
that lead to streets that read “Nothing Here.”
And now, somehow, taking the salt of tired out tears
and chapping the strict smiles of
those of us with average faces
running mazes, that lead to the streets
that lead to the start of no where.
There is no change and no range of mountains.
And so, those of us with average faces
have average clothing, worn with much loathing -
Those of us with average faces
don’t settle for rags, but dream of laces.
Running mazes on flat plane looking for hills and mountains,
speaking of scathing faces on altitude’s killing chill
and we keep running mazes looking for those places
but who cares, there’s still a few more hairs
left on average heads
And those of us with average faces work for broken threads
and pray they turn themselves to laces.
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