Lies
at one time
tasted like the sunset.

Now,
the rusting horizon somehow has legs,
lumbers through our minds on iron stilts,
wading past the flood of memory
like tsunami-resistant dinosaurs.

For here,
huddled under the treacherous canopy of poetic awareness,
there is only the bone-filling momentum of the past,
arcing across the sky of ourselves like fiery skidmarks.

So we ignite,
and burn with the fierceness of fascination,
dancing jubilantly in erratic I-don’t-give-a-**** motions
that ring out like the opening salvo of War & Peace.

Lies
at one time
tasted like the sunset.