I am a traveler, a gypsy.
A wanderer, a refugee.
But I still have pockets.
I sing Romani chants
in my aimless walk.
I talk to my selves, who never spoke,
and lull them to sleep in nights of wraths.
In nights of gloom and rusted paths
and blackened skies and starless sockets
I bring forward my selves to console.
I have not a map or a home
but I do still have tightly zipped pockets.