Shackles anchored at the shuffling feet of men, cries burgundy
confetti over thousands who planted their toe-nails in dirt and uncovering
filth, artifacts and gems of a simpler time. A time bound by refined
circulating bong rips amongst arms waving liberty under martial
law. Through the cold bars, mates basked in a golden shower of shanks, surrendering
natural reflexes in the face of death. A hieroglyphic coffin of peacetime
artillery forfeited under the assumptions of tyrants storming the unlocked
gates of the wretched asylum, where beautiful nurses drug the populous
Pantheon of curious faces. A time bound by curated commissions of war,
bleeding freedom for an argued cause, daunting up at the heavens, curses
inaudible rage. Through the frozen winters, benefactors indulge in harvest of weak
minds and poorer souls. An extinct sign language of Silk Road merchants,
pirates who hide a similar poison in their livers, where dices and cards
earned a man’s worth and the start of his countdown. Whispers of destiny
ruled the angles of catapults and dictated the blackness of the king’s lips.
Without proper records these modest times were lost along the way, pawned
countless men in the name of liberty and wealth. Still, we hang onto tainted
photographs, wild memorabilia from doorsteps of those contemplating jazz,
flurry of punches, and crowns that once stood for our youthful physicality.
Flags and crest banners beat against the fatigued Sun, imagining tomorrow
being drowned with thunderclaps. Invitations reduced and alone everyday.
Waves of parchment odor died and emptied seats tell sad tales burdening tears,
wax debris from Icarus blinded wishful men and tormented ambitious
dreams with misinformed realities. Slanted looks asked for trouble and so did
breaking wishbones, no matter the problem in question. So just maybe, just maybe,
the Sun is wrong, and it will be another beautiful day crowded by lovers and friends.