Found on the Street

On every corner, someone is waiting
A different face put on,
Instead of the usual mask,
Shotgun-carrying.

The ball, dropped on a passer-by,
Flowery, stained in blood,
Ready-made for a war
Between how and what to buy,
Non-lethal, it destroys all your thoughts
Of opposition.

New position, that takes hours of practise,
Shown in magazines,
You have to adopt, when you have sex on the moonlight
And under the sheets of paper,
Under the sand desk, you might.

Found on the street,
The diary you meet,
Written inside,
Broken outside,
Burned into pages,
Turned into cages
For words.