Sorrowful and soulful sounds come from the radio,
The Red Headed Stranger is plucking away on Trigger,
A whole different kind of cowboy.

Singing of times long past,
Of a woman long gone,
A woman he wish had stayed.

I use the last of my beer to walk down the smoke and ash,
Stubbing out my smoke atop a mountain of finished Winstons.

I look back on it now,
On the regrets that I've had so far.

Of trips not taken,
The could-have-beens that went undone,
And the Ones that had been let slip,
So it is here I find myself,
Drinking alone on this warm summer midnight.

Despondent and alone,
The little music box plinks on,
Sounding like a heartbroken and cold harp.

You slowly realize,
Little music box,
That your plinking rhythm is actually an anthem.

It's an anthem that many would march to war for,
Little music box,
But remember always,
Little one,
That absolute power will corrupt absolutely.

All for an ideal that plucks from the little music box

People think our legacies have to be based on wealth, ideals, and land.
When in fact it's our instincts.

What if you found out you've been thinking about someone in the completely wrong light?
That with a simple change of perspective,
A person who you may have known for years,
Is someone you found out you didn't know very well at all.

What about yourself,
Dear reader,
You ever have a realization that you are not the good guy of the story,
But the villain?

At what point would you consider a relationship with a person unsalvageable?

Ever thought about what people say about you when your gone?

It is only after the ultimate sacrifice by the hero,
That the rewards are to be reaped,
And that just astounds me.

Because it is in these stories that the sacrifices are made just after the hero finally has a chance to become redeemed or to have finally experienced life.

Rage can come on many forms,
I classify rage as an angry form of grief,
Why grief you ask?
Because rage is a sort of emotion that has sharp hooks that dig into your heart,
It changes your behavior,
And it isn't good for you,
And 90% of the time the only way to end it is to let the fire just burn itself out.

But changing gears now,
What would you do if you were to realize you were the bad guy in the play that is your life?

When do the justifications end and justice actually gets served?

It was after the show,
That the Agent approached,
His eyes glinting and flittering with a wondrous glow.

He showed them that he had but a simple and loose contract,
A Retainership that would benefit both parties,
Of which they would agree to.

It was then that the Agent presented them with a significantly larger contract.

It was then that they realized what they were being handed,
Their way to a better life,
A key to a very difficult puzzle,
A planet taken from their shoulders.

They had been discovered.

The anthem ripped out from the Frontman, the Drummer, and the Bassist,
Making a sound larger than should be possible,
Their anthem ripped out through the old amps,
The music revitalizing the old speakers.

The Drummer hammered out powerfully yet precise.
His feet rattling off like machine gun fire,
His bandana tied around his brow.

The Bassist laying down a metronome-like effect to it all,
Notes swaying and dipping to the tune,
Flaring out occasionally to add more gravitas,
Showing he was still his own musician.

The Frontman declaring to the crowd of transgressions committed,
Of battles won and lost,
But also the views from the other side,
That the enemy may be man still.
A story of agony and anger,
Sorrow and Savagery,
With jubilance for the act of violence.
The Frontman's solo soaring high before axe kicking down upon the audience's heads.

The Agent was stunned,
His dropped drink forgotten,
As he reached for the payphone on the wall
The experience in front of him spurring him faster.

The Band continued,
Their sound crescendoing,
Coming to an almighty peak,
Only to begin it's decent to the earth,
Crashing down magnificently,
Down upon a dive bar in the run down part of town.