The colors faded after awhile. The machine had washed out the red, white and blues. Frail arms outstretched over the borderlands, to carry us through. The threat came from within. Nations collapsing, what really matters is shining back through the rearview. So busy building, palaces in the sky. Coming back to the ground, it’s harder to the touch then we remembered. Like an indentured servant she still opens her doors for us once again. The saloon floor creaks, serving dirty water from her tap. So quiet without the birds. The house of cards all folded, littering the surface, only suicide kings and jokers could be found. Technology wasn’t the card we were looking for, burning Franklins face to stay warm. A dark humor emerges from the flame, as the last of our wealth disintegrates. This was the only time it ever held true value, bringing us some comfort from the cold winds of summer.
– Josh Fleming