Muted fine art screams at frequencies only the funeral hears

The horned one has already cut its food.

A starchy god lifts gold beneath an all-seeing sky.

Broken minds gather, each carrying their private storm.

Six passengers, one mollusk, two eye murals, newspaper, cup.

The city holds its breath, unbothered by strangeness.

Even a tuber can win if the crowd is waterfowl.