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In the dim
cherry red
ruins
of the
wee hours,
a
blue
note
forms.
It is
immaculate,
like a perfectly shaped dew drop
in the chill morning air.
On
the corner
a dark
brooding soul
squeezes life
from the tip of his horn;
it rises upward, naturally,
like a child's
balloon. |
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The charred fragment of a dream floats by
on a sea
of cherry blossoms.
A goofy yellow sun hangs like a
big pancake
in the pastel sky
and smiles down
stupidly
on everything,
absolutely everything. |
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Even the precious
blue-faced
prince
in his fathomless deep sleep
secretly longs
for the
little red embers
that can only
be wrung
from the flesh
of one
who can never
be
wholly satisfied.
Who can possible win this kind of battle? Who has ever won such a battle?
~ continue ~
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