Sunday, January 5


This aviary
Serves to bury
Aspirations deep within.
We wander halls
Of faceless dolls
To lose and find our secret twins.
Small and slight ones
Gone to flight ones
Move soft arms against the panes.
In this cage
We’re on a stage
Where voyeurs struggle to restrain.
Under palms
Are bearing alms
Sweet speakers offering truest peace.
But we neglect
To genuflect
Falling hostage to caprice.
Threads of sun
Are golden spun
Yet we are left to guess at names.
Diaphanous flowers
Dewy showers
Make of tragedies new games.

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