The dragons are at peace
On the felt orange cloth
As if that's something unique
For the day the sun
Moves again in the sky
The urge for acquisition became
The satiety of the acquired
The chocolate was neither too
Bitter nor too sweet
As we willed it to be
The frankincense burns an oblique
Entry for the oboe
Melody of primordial favorites
Of a cinnamon stick and green
Patio set singularity
As we wish our days to be
They are wished to be
Nothing real can stay
Oh but dreams confer our immortality
Through the confusions of exile
Is this a death or a birth or both?
Does it even matter how
The record plays again
Each time the same
Each time impenetrably different?
