Chronometric Prophecy

The future peeks out onto the avenue
From behind the support poles of the universe's infrastructure.
The children play masterpieces on their horns
But the sound waves just spiral out into empty air
And by the time we are full grown
Our only hope is to raid the elite museums after closing time
And find the antique wax cylinders that carry their song.
The blinding light captured by a watch
Is refracted into a rainbow upon the wall of dreams
Where the starving children are sent to die.
Yes, the cradle of death rocks so precariously
But the wishing well is filled with coins
Gilded with the hope that the highway leads to a place
Where the birds find their destinations
As they migrate between universes
That have been created in the exhilarating fancy
Of notes scrawled out on calendars.