It’s happening again,
initials on the fingertips,
names of ghosts on the tip of tongues,
the linch pin swan-song.

A mysterious blue,
frosty peaks,
melt to reveal a supernatural guise,
small time news,
spreads like wildfire
through the forest of honesty,
respectability nowadays,
is a foreign policy.

Underneath the layers,
and the lawyers suits.
Hide shadows in the caverns,
a melodramatic pattern,
good men and bad men,
shatter in a symbolic surrealist twist.

Blink and miss it,
the patter of the birds sing,
a quirky beginning and a murky ending.

Who knows what the day brings.
Who knows what the day brings.