The scrapyard shouts a sneering hiss, as the metal meets its maker and get put to the ground
in a murky sight, the seer digress, noting the constant vacuum of light, setting the scene as the dead turns to the stage in the theater of life
A staggering cold got him clacking his teeth, the mood of the weather reflected the street, as the rain dropped, people disappeared gradually, not unlike a serenade by those weakened, sitting isolated in a room blinded by a thought as it left a raindrop on his heart
By the curb, you leave it all behind, and by that same curb, you choose a new wine
There is no constant in time, but time itself, a figment of a man's vivid and mad imagination
Set to alarm, to dictate and date, small and big events, it pinpoints effects on the interior and exterior
the changes fade to disappear and all that is left is the shadow of the heart, we carved in the tree behind the yard, bright skies flew by the moonlight, as you gave me your heart, on that dimly lit October night.