There is talk
Too often, that's all it is
Of storms far off in the distance
Of raindrops created by baseless rumors
Knowing that silence is stationary
That the stillness is where the clouds are breaking

There are other eyes
Watching us, studying our movements
Laughing at our comedy of errors
Lamenting our production of self-affliction
Dizzy from the spinning film reel
And waiting patiently for the sequel

There are shots fired
From empty chambers and arrowless bows
Where the trauma is the most severe
And blood runs colder than December's breath
The aim was meant for the bullseye
But in truth, the bull is still sound asleep