page of swords

Clouds are one thing, but look at the islands in the sky,
Tons of solid rock with foppish ivy
And hapless squirrels and lizards peering out of grimy windows;
All this should be the works of your Creator,
Glorious works indeed. You can understand why
Inner earth dwellers blow up mountains
Once in a while. Crustaceans bury themselves in sand
As if it were just for fun, nonagenarians whistle
In underpasses melodies I can’t place,
Aged organists collect long scratches on vinyl
To muffle down the music of the spheres,
Hoboes jaywalk on highways picking up the dolls
Thrown out of the windows of passing cars,
The rich use plastic cutlery whenever they can.
Hungry ancestors wait for us in the hereafter
Fondly caressing the frames of mirrors so old
They can’t reflect even a speck of dust anymore.
It is a sad thing, that futile waiting.


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