Titles change with the winds
For the town lacking distinction
Inhabitants tethered to intercepting seams
Perspective arrives in scarce doses of sanity
For the town where no one dreams
A loaded gun, a bullet of false promises
Shallow graves, devoid of accolades
They had not seen the lights, never shall

Here rests Armstrong’s sordid symphony
Black melodies against excruciating silence.
Trembling shock waves beat feebly from underground
Threatening to swallow the citizens, carrying them
Down with its concluding pulse.
Clocks lie in shattered heaps along the bleeding tarmac.
The only thing wasted here is


Time.