Friday, May 31, 2013

The Firing Squad


He concedes his feelings of yesterday. Stealing time for congealing real dream. The Dreamer is trapped by his own schemes. Preened in the sand. Beaming ecstasy sunshine.

“I’se striding the night divine,” is the last thing he says, “with moonlight homicide. Hiding in the sides, lines, and paradigms,
Then
playing the fated caged against their prison gates."

Braying wasted on just a taste of sedation.

Termination

He did not see for all the caution,
and went crumbling asunder
with machine guns
and dust.