Breaking and Entering by Adam Bishop
There was a crescent above me that night.
It seemed to yearn for my blind attention,
As if its descent would enrich my life
And allow all my evil to vanish.
Music suddenly drowned my ears, how grand.
Reminded of a French, summer evening,
Eccentric, yet concise and cynical,
It surrounded me and depressed my thoughts.
I saw them around the corner. The Gang.
Arranged as if they were a sound system,
Reeking of ganja and post-war graveyards,
And a vapor that would hush any peep.
They develop their symmetrical sound,
Oppressed and beaten with a rusty pipe
Till it is operant and submissive,
Creating the image they desire.
However, the seal was loosening.
No longer the poster-boy of defeat,
Harmony engulfed the entire scene.
A wrangle ensued, and principle changed.
This new sound did not strive to be alive,
For that was too small a feat for this song.
Life meant nothing, society understood.
An old fern on a large ranch was useless.
And with no warning at all, it was done.
The band packed up their instruments and left.
I felt like I was in daycare again,
Something positive was taken away.
The dresser was open when I got back
To my desolate excuse of a home.
“For such an episodic night,” I said,
“I didn’t expect a lousy ending.”
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