The Death of History.

Those green patches he got on, aint so new.
His cap's just as dull as they are few.
It wasn't too far ago when the moon brought light.
Now it brings the darkness that eats within.

The flag they raise is a chameleon,
changing colors as and where they rage from.
The drums they beat are hollow,
The skin they beat is callous.

Could you whisper in my ear.
What it feels like to be near
How it feels to scream out loud
maybe we are just not meant to shout.

And as it happens,
For a moment, all the pain ebbs away.
Just one moment. That's all, y'see..
Remember that, for all else is just your own garbage.

The're talking in their sleep
It's keeping me awake, without a dream
The whimpers are overtaken with hushed tones
they aren't asleep, just our talking dead.

The street musicians written his tune,
so the reviews are left in ruins
but then he's tightened those chords.
just like the cocked guns and locked targets.

The memory is not what it was first,
rusted metal and a stoop for passer-birds
How many have gone underground they know not
The reason for their being lain down, they care not

Have you ever touched the night..
Have you ever watched the wind blow..
Did you ever feel the glance,
Ever been blinded by the Rainbow..

Post Script: The last verse was taken more or less from a musical piece written by the Stones that Roll. It takes me some place else. Some place nice, pretty and dream-like. I like it.