The shades of night engulf the beaming day
As metal and plastic cars race each free way.
Was our life always fast?
The forlorn moon can’t wait to have a word.
All nectar drains before the head is stirred.
The rising sun, which scouts for white egrets,
Espies a funeral march.
Each track the DJ spins is short and loud.
Each night mourns for the pulsing, dying crowd.
If morning moves their bodies’ broken dreams,
And they wake after spilling out their schemes,
Will their gods even care?
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