The Sound of the clock rang one last time, as the weary hearted shadow failed. The sun was seeking to find an image lost, that ceased in the middle of a deep blue sky. At every angle and throughout the day, nothing changed but the chill and the chattering teeth. One raindrop had fallen from a crescendo of tears, evaporating just like time, seasoning the still damp land.
Followers in sequence too busy to care, hustled about the streets waiting for the next ball to drop. Cheers and acrimony and a wave of the hand, til bedding with strangers again and again. When the moment came, an idea sprang to life, why not choose between the party-goers and the party? Pretty soon flashes of white and the shutter’s eye, passing a cake for two intended and then shared with more. A part frozen never to be warmed but only discarded.
The wine skin burst but nothing more flowed only the dim retrospect of a choice that morphed into a bad dream. Words were exchanged between the two and the two by many. Now, a gavel and the sounds of finality. Where did I come from and why should I care? Surely there is more to this than that?
So now jaded, a victim of familiar circumstances, those eggs all in one basket fell. Now is the time to adjust the screen. Take out the colors that are purple and green. Wiser now with only a poem to tell. Finding a warm spot in the winter’s interluded dreams.
Floyd, Times Are Changin 