My ideas sat on a central park bench in my stomach
Amidst the lights, noise and lactic abuse
Pigeons made nests along my lungs
on the road thats lined my esophagus a car drove past
and the man inside told the cab driver, he was going to see her,
and that she needed to hear him sing this song, a song she just needed to hear.
Where are you going?
To the heart of the village the man answered.
The pigeons wildly flew fearful of the coming change in a mess of featherlight objections.
At which point my ideas turned around to see man exiting a cab.
They heard him ask in a voice that implied he was nervous and unsure.
"Is this the heart of the village?"
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