Subatomic Tales I

It's the first crack in complacency.
A break in a slow tempo common time melody;
The yellow at the center of a Frangipani,
diffusing noisily into the white around like electron clouds.

Time arrives without invitation, drinks chai and doesn't pay;
asks for cigarettes,
then leaves abruptly;
leaves behind a quantum riddle,
suspends truth,
says its a trial and error method,
unknowable until tried.

Is it the pink red brown hair streaks of some lost unacknowledged lover
or a four hundred years old corporate killing spree?
Because a ghost of a past long subdued,
from a January riverside,
threatens me ethically, takes me by the throat,
cringes at the viral proliferation of my streptococcal pharyngitis,
and gently announces an impending death. Exaggerates.
This ghost
from an old smoky twilight,
frail and torturously righteous
offers reprimands on a deadline.

The sun slowly disappears in the concrete horizon:
frangipanis bloom, lost lovers say goodbye,
rats begin their scavenging,
money flows, people die,
and a country awakens/sleeps.