The Parade of Concrete Giants

There's something calling you, pulling you to some sort of bittersweet swing town. You can feel it in the sweat pouring out of the traffic and the leaves brushing against your hand. I'm sorry your eyes are finally peeking out and gliding along the burnt out lights and their fallen brothers, a cymbal against broken virtue. This is a chance to discuss and extend your words into strings of nonsense and create definition out of your cardboard fragments. Hot glue and scissors and tape are your weapons, a utensil of your tongue. You're keeping yourself and everyone up way beyond their bedtime. Sorry but not sorry about the swollen lips you've left behind in your wake. Home is so far back, lost in the black and white bricks that make up that once bright fork in the road. This is what you don't know. This is what you find out once the mystery and the quiet has faded into something more than that. Help is another illusion that you've created for yourself, support defined by its very ectoplasm. The walls will come crashing down and you will be forced to decide for yourself. All for one moment, once and for all.