The Year is Santa Monica

I walked in alone
Stayed that way
Through a conversation
What did you say?

Whims yielded a division
Of people
Across streets lit
With soft eyes
You didn't believe
In intentions, met
I didn't know directions
Set. 

Sleeping in a cocoon
Of belief in the soul,
Hidden holds upon
My intellectual goal

Wicker chairs metallic
Scratch, minds' kettle
Called the castle, stack
Okay surveyor, this
Is your home
Now hand over your
Name, use this
Comb.