Below the streets at sundown,
There is a game we play.
Sinners come to paint the town,
To the innocent: "Come what may."
Throw the dice,
Watch the numbers spin.
Eyes haunting ice,
Wisping away the best of kin.
Tis a throw of chance.
As swift as a halting advance.
Life's broken stance.
Dice halt in the air,
Smoke billowing still.
Watchers stop to stare,
Nothing but time to kill.
Shadows and dust,
Leave what they must,
In death's cool lust.
Epiphanies for the deed,
Come straight from the twilight.
Seeking chordal and mortal need,
With death's unholy might.
No time to mourn the dead,
Forgetting what was said,
God falls in his own stead.
Hopeless catalyst splatters,
Meaningless media chatters,
Nothing really matters.