NOISE

road side philosophers,
in neglect's attire and a voice profound,
sing to a 1969 blues guitar's sound,
of a certain apocalypse and what's to come

as urchins and skyscraper top floor jokers,
working women and power suit loafers,
sit around listening,
lightly whistling,

as the song speaks,
of what will turn the nearest corner,
as the song speaks,
of what will soothe every mourner,

on that fateful day,
if only for so long,
as an evanescent glance will last,
at the top sail,
of time's ship,
showing her from the mast

a moment's calm,
at apocalypse,
a moment's peace,
at apocalypse,
the slight glow around,
at apocalypse,
the angel in white,
at apocalypse,
a moment's calm,
at apocalypse,
a moment's peace,
at apocalypse,
a momental elixir,
at apocalypse...

(continued for who it is meant for)