They tread, remember many years ago

those four brick walls, satchel carried on the back

men have forgotten the articulated art, but look—

life find loopholes in the crochet pattern,

somehow solitary weave in city ways.

Dancer of boreal measures the past, an old man

shakes his head with vigilant laugh —

the candle lit again, "You see it's a dream of mortals,"

Dream of heart's desire, a beginning of never-wanting

needs, "Are you up for the waggle in need of wants?"

Creepy violet starts to bloom,

He just winked at the bottom of patios,

worn out music, making flash— The old hag

mutters again, "I too was a dancer of fate when lights

creep out and dawdle in the night."

Suddenly whimsical cries grab the ears,

"It's a ruinous body of laughter and tears,"

He huddled in the middle ground, foggy gray shakes again!

It's neither desire or need but an endless

dream of immortal hitch.

"You better run from fair flesh,"

He can only draggled his hair,

This is the end of tends, if a dream can

be the death of heads.

— 06/05/2023