How often
Have they tried
To make up
Our minds?

Ironed our options
Steamed our opinions
And sewed on
A few missing buttons
Onto our threadbare perceptions.

Some of us
have escaped
Their tender mercies.
By taking on the vocation
Of an under- stuffed  scarecrows.

What do we know
About The mechanics
The inerrancies of  glitter .
The creaky sanction
Below our thoughts.

But whatever
Dark  ceremonies
They plan
With the diagrams
Of dances
On hearth of our stone hearts.

The chicken , the robot
The winter dragon boogie…

They may miss
Subtracting the soul
From the bell curve.
Their imagination is understaffed
And the augury of their footsteps
Need a certain dark polish.

No matter our the spelling
Of our zany  misshapen alphabets.
There are  always a few
Crows to stalk the stanzas
The script of the Fields
We guard in our slumber
As our garments
Burn
In sun’s morning duty.

Adversaries ready to steal
With dark feathers
The plump opportunities
The fruit from
The green leafy lines
Of our unicorn free fountains.