I need you to roll me a cigarette,

little girl. Give a twirl.

Flick the Bic and spindle your hair.

Will-O-Wisp in every curl.

Princely visions laced within your

every exhale  - sparkle fog. Alive,

thoughts so eager to dive and weave something vivacious

Memory’s mantra, colony hive.

-

We were born in a bog, favors never come easy.

Just stepping stones and play things

for the spoiled, the renegades, and identity seekers.

Impressed not by treks of rat kings.

Perhaps a crag will open up with a yawn

and swallow down towers of sheep-men.

Digesting their white picket vaults in the core.

Maybe I’ll get some sleep then.

-

Void Water throne room;

on golden stools they sit.

Not shiny chairs to squat on,

but the stool they crave to ****.

We lay in watch - cackling, amused -

As the chamber corrupts its own brood.

Together, we cast jubilant tones.

Beggar’s sphere language renewed.

-

Beneath the crooked branches of the walnut tree -

all bards fell silent. She riddles: “In which key?”.

The answer was the sound of ten-thousand vibrating wings.