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Yenson Jul 2018
May we live in and see interesting times, the old saying goes

another offers that when the mind is blind, the eyes cannot see

for me my days are interesting and the laughter readily and often comes

for the grapes of wrath brings forth mirth filled grapes on grapevine tendrils

As lemmings and sheep enact bellyaching absurdities, as the ridiculous does



Veracity on sojourn and falsehood in residence with doors firmly closed

Hamlet re-enacts hapless role, with Red Robin Hood and vigilantes to a tee

eager audiences, participatory scenes in towns and cities, leaving empty homes

come all and vent your spleen and satiate your prejudices without paying a fee

This land belongs to us, it is our birthright and we will send Hamlet to the catacombs



Nothing is private anymore, rights and freedom nailed, anywhere we roam

Ophelia not only went to Italy, she went to Hull, Turnpike Lane and even Essex

but a joke here, if all these were good, why did she come to me, you simple gnomes

perchance unlike you common goons,  she knows distinction has no comparison to thee

Your vacuous hate filled mind cannot see that difference in a Prince, that regally looms



Act two, dim, fooled actors in their Beggars Opera, screaming, 'we oppose' with glee

so called republicans, laughable in their ardent favor, ignorant of their lobotomy botches

we will do Hamlet's head in, totally unaware theirs been done in, for the brains of fleas

in a civilisation, our conscious and stable populace, roots for vigilante and mob rule, yeah

for a man of distinction is a threat reminding you of your insignificance and lack of tomes



Come friends, lets see how the home of Democracy, hounds a citizen for us all and we

lets know that Robin Hood is alive and taxing, and 'Windrush' is still active in dispatches

indigenous people power, meets criminal gang stalking, meets racism and we all drink tea

and in true cowardly fashion, its all done by insidious, indictable, nefarious, malcontents and psychopathic crazies

It is our proud duty that we should all ruin Hamlet, for mediocrity has no distinction for aspiration et excellence


Copyright LaurenceA. JUNE 2018.All rights reserved.
This is based on the experience of some one victimized by a contemporary Left-wing Group for daring to criticize their views and believing in aspiration. This poor fellow has been hounded all over London, lost his job, isolated by smears and outrageous lies now broke and on the verge of suicide,, all because he aired his own stance against socialism. The Reds are forsaken bullies, I dare say this. In the old Soviet States dissidents are subjected to a program called Slow death, where they are discredited, harassed, hounded, mobbed everywhere, isolated, they are smeared, character assassinated and persecuted. they are unfairly dismissed from jobs, denied basic Human rights and some are framed and institutionalized and declared insane, in essence their whole lives are summarily destroyed and most end up committing suicide. I regret to tell you that this happens to some in this great Nation too. Pls research Criminal Gang-stalking, Cause Stalking and Community Vigilantes online.
Caddywhompus Nov 2014
Walking slowly, I enter the kitchen
I have been here before, but this time is different
Alone on the table a cheeseburger rests
Unattended
I glance both ways weighing my options
The burger is fresh and dripping with juices
Thinking ceases and instinct enacts
Within seconds the beautiful sandwich is gone
Stomach full, I lie on the floor
Guilt sets in
I have been a bad dog.
I wrote this after my German shepherd ate a grilled-cheese sandwich I made for lunch.
1359

The long sigh of the Frog
Upon a Summer’s Day
Enacts intoxication
Upon the Revery—
But his receding Swell
Substantiates a Peace
That makes the Ear inordinate
For corporal release—
KM Ramsey Jun 2015
you don't see life as a game of skill
playing hopscotch on the
white and black checkers
reaching out to infinity with their
comforting symmetry
and severe geometry

you say you're unobservant
but how can you look down
at your calloused mud-caked feet
and not see the
chessboard that is pressing
just as stiffly against your feet
as you reach down
and root yourself into it
burying your head in
the world of fantasy games
without winner or loser

i envy your blissful ignorance
your hope
however misplaced

do you simply refuse to see
how every pensive move
rook to E7
knight to C5
seems to me not an attack
on the mockingly vulnerable king
but an action of
vicious hostility towards
the most powerful piece on the board

so the queen enacts
her equal and opposite
reaction
to slash the entire cosmos to ribbons
an infinite fury of blind terror
that seeks blood
and scavenges the last flesh
clinging to bone.
Edna Sweetlove Mar 2015
All the world's a *******,
And all the lads and ladettes mere defecators,
Gratifying oozing exits and entrances;
And one man perforce enacts too many roles,
His acts being seven deaths. D'abord, the baby,
******* and ******* on his mummy's frock.
Then, the errant truant with his rucksack
And pock-marked ******'s face, creeping like death
Foul-trouser'dly to school. Next a teenager,
Panting like mad dog, with an oozing pustule
Dripping oe'r his girlfriend's pubics. Then a hoodie,
Full of strange oaths, and dressed up like a freak,
Lacking in honour, decency, and up for aggro,
Seeking the respect of loathsome peers
Even on the street corner. And then the adult
With bulging beer belly, and ample burgers stuff'd,
With eyes dulled by unfulfilled promises,
Mortgaged to the hilt, and indebted to Visa,
And so he wastes his life. The sixth age dawns
Before he knows it, bald futility,
With ****** in pocket, five quid a pill,
His youthful hopes well ****'d, the world too much
For his ignorance, and his vain butch rantings
Reverting soon to teenage curses, coughs
And tobacco'd wheezings. Last we see him,
Ending a pointless and useless existence,
Clutching to his ****-stained Zimmer frame,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans pension fund.
Yes! It's the melancholy Jaques' speech from "As You Like It" as re-imagined by me, the ****** Edna.
Erenn Apr 2015
Tears streaked down her face like lemon drops
Her freckles akin to constellations
Glistens as they sparkled like diamonds
Even in her worst state she looks ethereal
Believing in her onus of relegated contempt.
She knew she was right
But she couldn't move on.
Remembering yesterdays will only be grim.

She can never forget his sudden demise
How she wished she was swimming on whims.
Her conscience reminded her this was the best,
"The past will never be rewritten,
Fate is condemned
And it will never be changed
It will never be forgotten"


But she forgot she's still breathing
Her life endlessly bounded
To her heart's profound.
She's the master of her own
She can't change fate's surprise
But she can bring it to demise
She finally broke free like a lark
From speckles of lips that only tweets
But never succor in sustenance's bleak

She ran and flew
As high as the skies mimics the ocean's bare.
As darkness lurked forever hidden
She's finally free to go anywhere

To seek what enacts happiness
To solve jigsaws of desired puzzles
To breathe this life like forever has a last
To love and be loved again
To live the way she wants to live



Erennwrites
Something that just popped in my head.
I miss doing solo writes. so here I am.:)
You can't change the past.
But you are the master your own fate.
K Balachandran Nov 2018
A gothic drama
Night enacts; its taut dark plot,
Lone moon polishes!
Carl Hoek Mar 2012
This one ripped a hole in space-time, and she took everyone she knew with her. they could watch her roll down a hill like a seven year old, and laugh. as if to say cognitive dissonance is natural. after a certain age, who can tell where hypnosis and knowing are different? the border wall between pain and joy is obliterated by the act of experience. this realization enacts itself as an addition to a conscious bias, in which we all take pride.

        To say that you know beauty, is to say that you know the feelings of a brick wall. that is where the claws come in. they are ripping away at your loose lipped torso, and lusting over every solitary millisecond. like any good christian, muslim, jew, buddhist, agnostic, we wonder what these little fragments are.

    Will this make me feel any better, any worse? if pouring your heart out was the name of the game, the suicides would be pope. so we must sit around. harness anger and use it to observe the things that oppose it. such as instant love, or hate. such as silhouetted and budding trees against a dark blue sky. such as died hair in the bright winter sun, the color of wine and crushed pills.

    Bladder as a brewing storm, coughing into the wind.i see you as all existence sees me. as if a sore shoulder passes with an awkward twist. like a poked out eyeball at the scene of a homicide. every single color. the intelligent head of every lost spectrum. death of the soul. birth of sight.

at last may my head rest.
thank you for all of this
my dear, beloved empty skull in the sky
thank you for half a spinal chord
and for the power to rip it out
david mungoshi Nov 2015
softly humming and deftly proceeding
unobtrusive like a shy one at a gathering
i make myself obscure and inconsequential
though my heart tells me it's only a matter of time
before i make my mark and cause a stir among my peers
and before we hear the distinct sound of the bell's chime
as it calls upon all and sundry, far and wide across the land
to declare their love in soft tones and hearts serene and sincere
to look upon love with wondering eyes that burn with longing
and drink to the love of a lifetime in a sunset glass blown by a master
thereafter to sing a song that is a tale of love unlimited and hope eternal
the thing to remember is the image of a backpacker at some lodge
sinking with the yellow sun in an obscure room where he lays his head
though he knows it not, his ritual daily enacts our final days
I looked out,
Christmas decorations were already hung up in the sky,
even the frosting floated about
with the lights of the town dwarfed below,
such a glow, each ***** of a star,
the hills, hulks of stone, seemed warmed,
ready for celebrations,
annual explanations of our psyche and its exaggerations,
where the simple tale, just like the one stella, bright,
enacts its cycles in the dark of night.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 27th November 2014.
Dale deep in the valley, no sun in Winter, there lives a well known Norwegian poet, I visited her there near Christmas.
David Plantinga Nov 2021
Loquacious people love to spill
Plump secrets they’re too vain to keep.  
To tell tremendous news can reap
Friends whom novelty alone can thrill.  
The truth is common property,
And independently abides,
While forgettings are all pseudocides,
And neglectful parents can’t agree.  
Whoever lies confers a gift
Devising falsehoods just for you.  
Facts thrive where thistles never grew.  
Don’t give what anyone can lift.  
In legend consumed bread regrows
To feed a nation from one loaf.  
Truths regenerate, so any oaf
Can pluck a common, banal rose.  
Truth-tellers safely can forget,
Because some checking resupplies.
Not so with lonely, fragile lies,
Whoever lies must ever fret.  
Glib, easy tongues who scatter facts
Have given every anyone
A tale regifted they’ve not spun.  
Lies are what imagining enacts.  
The stringent claim that facts are few
While falsehoods sprout in multitudes
But where the robust truth intrudes
Mendacity’s scorched residue.  
The truth is a replenished ore
Dug from an open, shallow mine.  
Lies are a moon-grown eglantine
Or stories from a private lore.  
Facts are devalued minted lead,
Coins of a debased currency,
But lies are golden filigree
Which melts wherever sunlight’s spread.
Dave Williams Aug 2020
i sometimes feel like i'm a bit too sweet
that enacts in everyone the 'go away' effect
though i'm shy
and indiscreet
and tasty? i think

but these days i feel like i'm a marshmallow
that enacts in some of us the 'hey' effect
good to meet you
melts on your tongue
doesn't it? i think

and the more you let it melt away
the lonelier it felt, and today
was exactly that rapport
so when can i get some more
Bhavani Gopi Apr 2018
Never ask..
you will be given..
Never say
You will be understood..
Never cry
You wil be pacified..
Never show
You will be loved...
Such passion of being with you idiots means ectasy ..
The moment u  leave..  left the part of mine with u..
Horcrux is not real as far  not  met with u people ..
Writing memo to god..
Let it not become Memories..
Real time is all regrets...
Nostalgia knocks at the nook corner of labtab being..
Throwback throws back the untiring tidy moments..
Entire world enacts the reflection of urs..
Friend the moment with u should never end...
It is the poem that tells you people the memories that friends gave me ..
Contraducción Apr 2020
I really mean no harm.
All I can give
To you,
My arm
Not my trust. I must not!
Well your trust, is all yours
  and its you, who to trust.
Who decides, who enacts.
With these words,
I detract. No I don't!
It's my trust, that just lacks
Speaking clean
About love
About Facts
I will get it one day
Oh I will!
Speak at last
Is my love what I give
And the least
You will have
Get ready for me
And hold me close up the sky
Happy Tuesday!!:):)
Samuel Canerday Aug 2018
Is art the brush across the canvas,
Or the pen across paper, the person
Who enacts and enthralls a crowd?
Is it the pounding heart, the moving limbs
Assembling each piece in sequence, Or
Perhaps the minds that shape each facet?
I don't know much of art, or of love, or
The many wonders of the vast world,
But I know my heart yearns for creation
Even as worlds crumble all around
Onoma Sep 2021
darkness doesn't know

it's color...as it enacts

the thickest plaster

with striving.

ungluing white hands

that spread under the

wings of birds.

pausing abruptly midair--

over their clearing, wings

never more wide open.

breast to breast.

too final with embrace,

not rise overhead.
BLD Feb 2024
Cherry tomatoes
ripened and red
sprouting from
a store-bought ***;
sweetened soil
with water and sun
and leaves as green
as the growing grass.

Routine enacts certainty
when maintained concrete.

I forgot
to keep with it;
the scarlet skin
wilted dull and brown
and the leaves wrinkled
under a midwestern freeze,
a jar of life
left to die.

Two cherry tomatoes
survived the exodus
and remain alive
in the wasteland of death;
striving against the odds
to pull each nutrient
sickling through the soil,
sinking beneath the surface.

The most difficult lives,
the ones worth living.
Donall Dempsey May 2018
YOUR LAUGHTER LOST AMONG BALLOONS

Your hand pins the Santa
to the living room door

his belly blossoming into decoration
your eyes alive with Christmas lights

blinking on & off

your laughter lost
among balloons

floating in an other world
& yet another Christmas

the same scene re-enacts itself
(without your presence)

presents lolling mutely
around the festive tree

each detail crystal clear
the dance of your hands...the music of your hair

turning ever turning

sharp as holly
drops of blood mimicking its berries

I **** my thumb to staunch the flow

memories red & real
as blood

Death sitting in your empty chair.
Donall Dempsey May 2019
YOUR LAUGHTER LOST AMONG BALLOONS
( for Junie )

Your hand pins the Santa
to the living room door

his belly blossoming into decoration
your eyes alive with Christmas lights

blinking on & off

your laughter lost
among balloons

floating in an other world
& yet another Christmas

the same scene re-enacts itself
(without your presence)

presents lolling mutely
around the festive tree

each detail crystal clear
the dance of your hands...the music of your hair

turning ever turning

sharp as holly
drops of blood mimicking its berries

I **** my thumb to staunch the flow

memories red & real
as blood

Death sitting in your empty chair.
louella Aug 2022
isn’t it strange that we don’t name ourselves?
because if i had the choice, i would be named: the girl with wavy or curly hair that never belongs anywhere
or the girl who believes in God more than herself
the girl who fears rejection like it is Covid-19
the girl who wished upon a star, but is still waiting on her delivery
the girl who is senseless who knows nothing about anything
the girl whose best friend left her when she was thirteen
the girl who associates made up or distant people with safety and security
the girl who listens to too much music and it clouds her judgment
the girl who re-enacts movies after she sees them play onscreen
the girl who gets lost in Disney movies and doesn’t enjoy reality
the girl who died after eighth grade and is despising the high school experience
the girl who purposely curses herself on friday the thirteenth
the girl who lost her mind and has lost all her glory
eruption, disaster, ugly, failure, useless, dramatic, romantic, not even close to funny, unintelligent, boring, exhausting to be around, psychotic, waste of space, crazy
the girl who is anyone, but what my parents named me
the girl named…
i was gonna text my friend, “isn’t it weird that we don’t get to name ourselves,” but i chickened out lol. why do our parents get to name us tho?

8/1/22
larry mintz Sep 2024
Strophe
I
O mycorrhiza, natures inter net.
This inter net does keep all plants alive .
It beats out what our race has thought as yet.
The natural world around it does thrive.
II
Trees struck by lightning ,finished by decay.
The  Net enacts signs to the  biosphere
Mycorrhiza knows and does save the day.
The Net does save the ecosphere is that clear ?

III
This food does helps a lot  of damaged trees.
Trees kept alive as long as they can stand.
The Net restores a lot of trees with ease
Mycorrhiza the way to heal the land.

IV
‘shrooms good  to eat I relay at  the least
The Lions mane ,Reishi are good  for health
Find Boletes and Chanterels -what a feast! ,
And the Turkey-tail shroom, Wow !you own wealth

Antestrophe
I
Fire burns deadwood at the place  it does fall
They free up space ; release fresh food they do.
Black Morels grow in burnt out soil ,I recall
Remember the sun and rain they help too.

II
Eat meat and fowls and fish all good for you
Drink  V8 it will keep you so healthy  
Eat  fruit and veggies all good for you too
Deduce the rede above you are wealthy .

III
And many mushrooms are poisonous too,
The Fly Agaric white spotted red cap ‘shroom ,
The Sickener ,red cap-white stripe bad for you,
Fly Agaric most likely brings your  doom.

IV
The Deathcap mushroom surely is deadly,
There are many others that aren’t reckoned,
Eating a deadly one  kills you quickly,
Unknown shroom located, it should be questioned.

Epode
I
The fifth kingdom is  surely wondrous,
We know a little measure about fungus,
In school it’s in microbiology ,
We know more  on standard biology.
II
There’s a field called Radical Mycology ,
Peter McCoy created this hip field,
Earth’s  Net as model of ecology,
If you practise carefully you should get healed. .

III
When picking strange mushrooms carry a  guide ,
If you eat them your ride might be a hurst,
If they are edible  wash them ,try them fried ,
Do not heed  my advice|things might be worst .

IV
And Natures ' Net  does hold plants together
It feeds them all  in good or bad weather  ,
And eating healthy food keeps one stout ,
And Natures. ways certainly deep I shout !
A Poet Oct 2021
Save me from this romanticized brain,
my body enacts its revenge,
  Engrossed in an end that does not end.
It penetrated my soul, my body, my mind.
Save me! Save me! From myself!
From these thoughts, of this **** r̶o̶m̶a̶n̶t̶i̶c̶i̶z̶e̶d̶ ̶b̶r̶a̶i̶n̶
.
Cyclone Dec 2019
If clever wordplay deserves pay, what will this Earth say, asking mother nature later caters in her way, the third day, still ******, urgent to earn it, calm down with your palms round town to serve it behind the curtain, with the strive, was you alive, or too amused by the motion, never noticing how to drive until deprived, five facts enacts bad news, uncircumcised, human eyes replies used, with you accused, excuse me, I'm thinking ooh-wee!, you and me?, you me, and I'm your groupie, smoothly, do me, until dawn, never tired till I stop moaning, groaning with yawns, was turned on, a con's only pro is ***, getting high from the low then around we go, but never know, yo, have you heard getting better pay, with that ***** **** that is wetter from your spurred play, NOW THERE'S NOTHING LEFT TO SAY, NO WORDPLAY.
SWEET

The day she went
out of our lives

I offered her a sweet.

'Thanks love, I'll eat it
later on the bus.'

She snaps it shut in her little red purse.

I still feel my hand  letting go of her hand
see for the last time her never-again-seen face.

Only the little red purse returns
out of its mouth…Death laughs

in blood besprinkled glass
some small change…the never eaten sweet.

For years it lives behind the wind-up clock
in my mother's bedroom

scaring me each time I have to pass
and it sees me     and laughs.

My little brother not even born then when...
jumps up & down playing alone

all by himself
in a world of his own.

He is both good guy & bad guy
falling down dead on the bed

as a quick spat out shot
ricochets & agggh...gits him!

Even by 7
killing yourself is a tiring business.

He stops. Rests.

...rummages around among
my mother's artifacts.

His little inquiring mind
snaps open the little red purse.

Death laughs(but he not knowing)  
is immune to it.

He sees the white wrapped death sweet
almost glowing against the red.

He sees it...eats it.

The Past has been
eaten by the Present.

Unaware of what he has done
(Death defeated)  

he flings himself on the bed once again
pretending he is dead

sunlight streams through the glass
holds him gently in its hand

this the living child
Death dead at last.



This is where all my writing starts from...at the same time that Death gave me a voice...it tore my tongue out. The poetry finally let me speak.

I keep coming back to this one moment and writing different poems from different angles and even a short story!  It haunts me.


GLASS

only
her red purse
returns

Inside it a sweet
some small change &
blood besprinkled glass.

it alone
survives
the crash

Death is only
a newspaper headline.
still...this grief

I weep tears
that don't show up
on my face

I push my fingers
deep in the purse
cut my fingertips to bits

the held glass
(all I have of you)
scarring my face

blind
to the pain
blind to the pain

the old blood
and the new mingles
and once more

if only for a second
we are together
for as long as the pain lasts.


SWEET

See the purse. Little red purse. Little red purse with golden clasp. Snap it shut. See June open the purse. Open the purse June. Snaps shut. Sweet. How sweet? Surrounded by toffee the soft chocolate waits to be bitten into.

'Not now love, I'll have it later.'

The bus is late. We all wait. In school we chanted 'Here comes the bus...here comes the bus...will there be room for all of us? ' We all wait. The bus is late. She laughs with her friend. See June laugh. Laugh June laugh. Her hair eclipses her eyes. Her eyes vanish in her laughter. She had given me money to buy sweets as we wait for the late bus. She is totally absorbed in the words her friend is mouthing.

I can only see her talk. I can't seem to hear her anymore. Memory erases itself. The only sound is silence. I am offering her a sweet. She takes it absentmindedly and smiles: 'Not now love, I'll have it later.' She clicks open her little red purse. The white sweet curls up and sleeps.

The bus puffs and pants. It creeps and crawls up the hill. Junie's laughter freezes into slow motion. Laughter spills like water. Splashes me. I am totally absorbed in her being totally absorbed with the laughter. The world is only 'now.' Now is all there is. The bus takes a millennium to arrive at where we are. It has to crawl from the world of time into our world of no time. Yet in no time at all the bus is no longer there. It is a dot in the distance - a curtain of trees eclipsing it as it turns a bend. Gone.

I am letting go of her hand. My hand is waving goodbye. Her hand is waving goodbye. There is only the dance of hands. The language of gesture. Her face floats and bobs away from me forever. I never see her again. Memory starts to erode reality. I only remember that I forget.

The water splashes all over me. I am washing myself is the sink. The knock on the door freezes the water... the moment... and who I am. When the strange man leaves my world...my world no longer exists. The bus crashes. See the bus crash. Crash bus crash. Look Donall look!

'Here comes the bus...here comes the bus! '

Bric-a-brac floats back. The little red purse returns. It is snapped shut. Its innocence survives death. Its casual simplicity is intact. All facts are kept from the purse. All is contained in its redness. For years it lays unnoticed...unopened. It lives in the space behind the clock that tolls the time. The hours resonate as they pass. The purse has transformed itself into clutter. It is only another item that fills up space. It has no function other that to have no function. It is opened casually and by sheer chance.

Death spills out. Splashes me all over. Little bits of glass flecked with blood glint in the new light of an other 'now.' A different 'now.' I cut myself shutting it. Fresh blood. The white sweet still lies asleep curled up into it self. It's whiteness shocking against the sheer redness.

Death is a seven year old uneaten sweet. Death glints ready to cut again. For years it inhabits yet another existence...the existence of never opening again. It has a power all of its own. I cut across a room rather than confront it. Frantically looking for something or other I suddenly confront it. It confounds me and wounds me with its presence.

My little brother enacts a film he has recently seen. He plays all the parts. Suddenly, he the good guy, is shot by the bad guy who is also himself. He clutches his heart in disbelief...stammers in a bad Bogie voice: 'Ya got me...kid! ' He grabs the purse in order to signify his deathly wound. He holds it to his heart where it apparently bleeds through his fingertips. This purse means Death. I leave him dying over my mother's bed.

Although he is now dead his curiosity gets the better of him. He is hungry and teatime is a far away place. The purse opens with a slight gasp from its golden clasp. The white sweet reveals itself - a deadly pearl held in red. Somewhere in time a bus is crashing. Hands are waving goodbye. June is laughing. She clicks her purse shut. The bus has not appeared as yet- the bus has just come into view. There is only now...this moment. Timeless.

'Not now love...'

My little brother sees it.

It is a Cadbury's Chocolate Éclair.

There is only one sweet.

There is only one of him.

There is only one thing to do.

He eats it.
His flow chart,
Mozart
as he describes all its mechanical parts and enacts any of its mystifying arts

Fusion and fission prevent the floating,
Contorting,
Glowing
Oak
Ark from falling apart,
My own little personal trademark work of art
Michael John Aug 2024
i
i

she put a flower
behind her ear
-pretty as edna

gb, makes a mental note..
this  moment-preserved..
he will write later:

we walked home together,
the stars mere pretenders-
thiefs with chips,
to edna,
with a flower behind her ear..

ii

ernie, cries bravo!
and performs something
vaguely iberian-

and happy joins in-!
why humans dance?
(so entitled..)

he re-enacts a killing
this moment of existance
the beauty of fire and night

the love of god
the shadow of light
the rising sun..

iii

then,he is collared by
lugubrious ***
(the doorman)

and finds himself
outside
(have we not been there?)

shamed once again but
happy
they begin..

iv

their walk home
beneath the stars
to surrender

free as the birdies
as the breeze
past and the future..

— The End —