Through This Fiction

there is a bit of a fiction
when put in the proper order
reveals the truths of the diction
that eminated from the mouths
of a hundred thousand strangers
in a collective disposition
toward the old and toward the new
delivering an essence to the street
where the view is but limited
by street signs and traffic cones
where the people trip over
cracks and broken stones
to make the journey forth
away from the cover of their cages
the safety nets they cast over one another
that trapped them and left them ill
struggling to see through the smog
and decipher the riddle of the air
those empty cold spaces before them
melted by the suns beaming light
taking for granted the air that they breathe
it is in those instances of observation
where strangers observe together
and see the numbers as different collectives
some patters, some sequences,
some see nothing but singular objects
but for a few of them they will see the same
and though the spaces before them
do not block the view of one another
and although they see into each others eyes
they will not know that they have had
the same thoughts deep inside
as their thoughts form words of fiction
that they verbalize with broken diction
and hope to spread like a warm disease
upon the masses of the people
all those other strangers
even those that are blind inside
who do not think in wild thoughts
or come up with grand ideas
at least not all on their own
and these strangers and their stories
will ignite the thoughts that are but coals
that sit unused and dead inside
the minds of the wanerers
and a small fire is ignited
so that hundred can become thousands
till those thousands transfer to millions
and the virus consumes in wonderful fevers
all the strangers of the world
and that in truth is a power of fiction
because it presses itself upon the reality
this fabric that they and I and we
have taken for granted
so that in fragile diction
the others can recall
what is was
to be
us
all.