The music scene is where I'll be

Slinking, lynx-like, through the beats

Beats of the artists, musicians, magicians;

Beats that roar, and prowl; twist and turn; slither and slur;

Beats that add fragrance to the magnolia-choked air at dusk,

And help it fade to twilight.

A twilight scene, with glam and glitz and glitter; completed with an icy breeze

Which smells like October leaves, even amidst June leases.

Their voices scream in their music

While their souls dance you to death.

Until heavy breathing, groping limbs, and the heart's sultry pulse,

Are the only things in which you find sense.

Still hangs the beats; they sparkle and twirl

With the lives and the energy we all refused.

And they refer to their cheer with the intent to taunt,

With memory and reverence for all of life's cues we have dropped.

Still, there's the smoke. A shimmering-amethyst jewel,

That orbits the beats in an adoring way, which the wise deny,

And the lost ones crave.

But this smoke, from your fires, tribute, and sins,

is mostly born from the ashes of a prophets last win.

It selectively chooses, from the sacrifices you provide,

Based on truth and devotion, not money and rides.

You'll forget my words as the liquor spills

Over your eyes, and clouds your sight.

All your one hit wonders, with your property to view,

Never consist of the beats which the amethyst smoke will choose.