A sound was heard in
The middle of the night.
You fired your gun,
And now the horse is dead.

It's just so terribly
Dismal to know.
The truth is you pulled
Your trigger and another
Man did so as well.
You fell.
And still, it rained.

The drizzle of the rain
Falling from my window
Was quite blue that day;
They took you underground,
My friend.

And in slow procession, a crowed
Flowed over the cemetery.
I had not thought death had
Undone so many.

Flowers and cannonballs
Were fired into the Sunday fog.
The air screamed along
With the attendees down below.
And still, it rained.

The beeping of machines
Is beautiful, you know.
They're so rhythmic,
So Systemic and so haunting.
It's so sad that you will leave,
And this poor machine
Will be left alone.

Do you miss those stories?
Oneiric, the vapor of trains is.
The fleas that cling into flesh
Are relentless when in war.
That is all that you've told me,
Or at least all that I remember.