LUNCH TIME

Sweet death creeps across an ocean-like floor.
The crowds flock unwillingly as the blockades of defeat are smouldering,
Chilled out sipping heat through a straw.
Drawn to the waking beats of drums,
So elegantly in rhythm.
Chaos free and willingly to be heard;
Peace on the horizon, so true even as the rain pounds upon the blackness.
Signals of the unlit cancer sticks call the wild ones out!
As the feast is over, so shall be the death;
Closure of the moment is seen to be ending...