Black cats waltzing under ladders…
The mind tends to jest this way.
Left a choice, not today.
We twist through our dreams
like silk worms weaving.
No stars grace our
dead zone sky there?
Do you ponder the life
inside a rain drop?
Do you sweat in the
Nightmare of your soul’s Shylock
“Never the same! Never the same!”
cries the old man atop his
scrap yard shanty, with broken voice.
Time in it’s callus hands presses
86’400 times from sun to sun.
“I can’t find the moon anymore.”
She cried, for a lover gone
before the river dock
was dried of the salt tears.
What you see is human.
What is seen beyond these
feeble orbs, refracting bits of adulterated light,
those who dance in the storm’s finest hour, and
laugh at the days gone by,
as the stage spins quietly on it’s axis.