Chains

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.