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 uniform,

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.