Tuesday, October 12, 2021

Comms by Scavino

It's a strange awakening 
Where we must tiptoe
     Among the sleepers;

I spin like a dancer in a Cornell box,
Doily folded over like it's a portrait of the deceased
     So the would-be revolutionaries cannot see,

For there is no truth in what I know,
My eyes are too obscure to enlighten,
     Too much a window on my own soul.

I am just another bird on a unicycle.
There is something they need to be shown:
     A precipice of their own.