I ask this of you right now
Maybe the sun is not there for the peddlers
The jacks of tirades
The artisans of peppers
The conveyors of words?
Hope breached by the almighty nothing
The stupendous lie
He who is bidden could be mistaken
By his biding for time
In fact he is bitten by the firm jab of fear’s metal blade
The bite of rust nicks supple flesh
Fast he is wrested away by the nape
Only to be jarred into coherence by the nigh
All wrong is everything
And everything is awry.
The sullenness of sighs
The rhetorical Why
This mere dust among loneliness
The rafters and riddles of cries of surprise.
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