Block upon block are the flashing lights,
Enticing to a life of indulgence,
Inverted pocks within graphite streets
Like jump traps, capturing strangers in the dark.
A wail and a shot,
Then once again,
The screams come from well-behind,
As a car pulls near to a crumbling curb,
Peddling taboos from an empty trunk.

He prays all the while to the God of Abraham,
Begging absolution for his sins,
Desolate society,
Day in and day out,
Shrouded fully in purples and blacks,
As the courier arrives with document sealed,
Festooned in sunglasses and tight white slacks.
“I am sorry for this, but you must sign,”
Said in accented speech of another tongue.
It was a treatise on Darwinism,
Left unread in delirium
As the prayer was fervently recommenced.

Do you still believe in miracles?
Are they wondrous if somehow undesired?
Is it simply blind luck,
Or perhaps the miracle of fate,
In the trunk of a car,
Curbside so late,
Caught in a pock
Amidst the flashing lights,
As the shots ring out
From somewhere well-behind,
While the messengers wear vestments of purple and black,
And offer prayers to the god of dawn?

Darwin just laughs
From a mountain top,
A well-earned chuckle
For the chaos he has wrought.
He oversees his kingdom
Wearing tight white slacks,
Eying suspiciously,
The guys in purple and black,
For he knows in his heart
That despite his antics,
The age old question
Is one of semantics.
And for all of his arguments
In defense of fate,
The truth is simply
A matter of faith.