pageantry.

                      The pastel children pass through the hall,
                      dripping drama,
                      oozing trauma,
                      singing starkness,
                      drinking darkness.
                      They adorn themselves with buttons and rosettes
                      and viciously steal each other's limelight.

 

 

                                            desert sonnet

                                 broken cups about me, not a drop to drink
                                 eyes dried tight inside me, silent lips lie parched
                                 mind tied in night within me, not a thought to think
                                 desert spinning out before me, on wooden legs i marched
                                 so spent i trudged and sang a song
                                 of his image bleeding through my ears
                                 it made the day less weary long
                                 words of fire to warm my fears

                                 the melody tripped about a searching tongue,
                                 wove wildly through meridians of meat.
                                 i forgot his face, or i would have sung
                                 rapturous refrains of lips too sweet.
                                 blue mountains loom at the desert's end.
                                 if i got lost somewhere else, would he still be my friend?

 

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