Shooting rods of graphite strings,
Around floating, incandescent rings.
Casting doubt for fish, not food,
Slinging hams you thought were good.
A rifle rife with subtle black metal,
Swinging chains, depressing a pedal.
Believing that which seems sincere,
Remain in light, you were not here.
Leaving town for forgotten plains,
Speaking out, it hurts your brains.