Death of Fashion
Next NY Riots
from miles away we came, we came
from places so different but quite the same;
the place where we met was a fisher's net
and had ourselves to blame.
the four, a drop of oil each,
in a glass of water, no doubt we'd meet.
ourselves compelled, our souls to meld
we found our lives a beat.
a murder mystery upon us fell,
the outside world we had to tell
jumped out of the muck and counted our luck
and wished our pasts farewell.
removing ourselves from time and fear,
we set foot in a world of which few hear.
a simultaneous place with nothing to waste
our minds seemed suddenly clear.
it is here where our visions are living too late,
tangles of sounds and an understood fate.
by the wayside does our mortality fall!
in this world we are born a clean slate