Wild Card
August 17, 2008The buzzing sound of machine guns trail
the dust from the setting sun.
The dancing tunes of wails engrave
into plastic thoughts
forever in disarray to the music of time.
The blazing fire burns
in the backdrop of the morning dew.
Emblazoned on the songs of the birds of prey.
The ringing sirens trip the light fantastic
to the assonant melody of the wild card.
The orchestra of truth and lies sound off to the beat of the wild card.
From the rising sun in the east to
the tumbling darkness of setting to the west.
The music lives on in rhythmic jive
the blues of despair
the soliloquy of death
all in line, the standstill of time.
The great composer watches the world burn
as the wild card orchestrates.
The music settles and fades into black…
The dust ensconced on the gray streets.
The sound of sirens are replaced by wails of newborn babies.
Death brings forth new life.
The world spins madly on to the harmony of the wild card.
