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If the priests chiseled eyes want a place to judge
considering my demise a perfect bullseye
and as the bells play, every other hour
the grass shrivels, under the echoes power
the red/white and blue could honestly be seen for endless seconds
those familiar, whining sirens -- blaring

leaving us strangers hiding together from the menace
never returning glances or sharing personal stories
only in-stricken lies that we perceive
that was once our glory
but where is our generation now
seeking cultural and spiritual expansion
as the jazz note strikes, leaving even fewer of us
playfully dancing
under a dust filled disco ball and spotlights
that reveals sweat and wrinkles
our childhood dreams when the scoop falls
leaving the cement moist with endless sprinkles
letting the day breaks/ sun drops/ darkness flies in/
clouds encumber the crescent of the moon/un-clothing shadows
when the broadest of men continue to whistle