There will be consequences to the plans

we made, there always are;

Seems like somebody gets hurt every time

somebody else stands up tall.

The day arranges its winners and losers like

items at a Greek bazaar,

Somebody’s horse will come from nowhere

to triumph, and somebody’s will fall.

The white moon tonight, the clouds distracted,

They shuffle the light, they dish out

the atmospherics with flair.

Somebody is born, somebody dies, some real,

some parts merely acted,

You light a match and see my look of terror

illuminated in its glare.

There will be lasting damage when this is over,

there are always losers;

You think something is history, then years

later stumble upon its ill effects.

The day peoples its alley with the weary

echoes of dying substance abusers,

Somebody will stand on the bridge in

uniform, and somebody will scrub the decks.

The sharp wind tonight, the air unscented,

It cashes in on the uncertainty, allows autumn

to take the blame,

Somebody is born, somebody dies, some

forgotten, some long lamented,

You strike a match and see my look of disbelief

appear briefly by its flame.

Days and nights stand equally on guard

before us,

Each longer than the last, each armed.

We will defeat each one, but it will be

hard for us.

Their hearts are of darkness,

their doors alarmed.

There will be casualties once the fighting’s

ended, trust me;

Seems like somebody catches an aeroplane

every time somebody else lands;

The day’s credentials don’t look authentic but

I guess they must be;

Someone will triumph in the centre circle,

and someone will sit in the stands.

The sirens tonight, their message amended,

From a single incident to news of society’s

explosive decline,

Somebody is born, somebody dies,

some alone, some warmly befriended,

You’ve used your last match but I can see

your sadness, even if you can’t see mine.