Wandering through the day
in many disguises, we parade
our wares like enterprising peddlers,
bargaining for the best prices,
trading in the currency of
luminous words or emotive appeal.
As the sun dips into its western shores,
the peddler dons the performer’s cap,
forced to speak much louder
against the din of traffic’s rush hour,
where many voices are heard,
some speaking louder with simple, muted words,
in the deafening silence of solitary nights.
In the high noon of night’s darkness,
the adjudicators step out of their closets,
self appointed to determine share prices.
With full oversight and freedom,
they determine the futures’ market.
They audit for “good” ethical practice
and hand judgment down for those
breaking the moral high-code.
Such are the facades we sometimes wear,
in our liberation of freestyle art to share.