Saturday, February 22, 2014

At Dana Point

A peace sign on the lawn
Of a mansion built on postage stamps,
The conga lines are drawn
In the sand, beneath the man-made clouds.
What world there is has disappeared
In smoke on endless oceans.
All that's left in the mausoleum
Is "Hell is other religions"
And pilgrims who have climbed its cliffs
To touch its form devoid of form
Bring too much life along with breath
To coax the gold to truth.

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