The streets are paved with prophecies. The lost and unclaimed find it, are housed by it, they pick at it, and bend to it, they laugh while they tend to it, no cry while they are gamed by it.

Whispers curl at corners, straight through they run to you. Have mercy when they wake from side to front of cue. The time they spent asleep was all they owned. The ball finds six holes to fill with dreams, whip creamed, the lies always sound new.