The Western Fantasy

The stars pass by in constellations of fives and sevens,

The clusters pose in shapes made in heaven,

But no one could tell;

Man-made silver sands and the fornicated Halley’s comet glided past,

The man looked down and shuffled fast,

Into the daily commute from and to hell,

A one-way ride, you could tell.

Cigarette stubs littered the streets,

As the man engulfed himself in ashes and debris,

“Is it a busy afternoon, sir?”

Asked a local boy to the man

Burdened under the garb of the four starred uniforms,



Silence answered for he was the part of the very same flock;

Men in sheep’s clothing oscillated hither and thither from the metro station,

A rundown circus of daydreaming desperados.