prove

That ain’t no shag whag potent proclamation of prize personal prerogative
That my dear was near to some scripted out romantic ordeal
Oh, all night time streets, all lamp light mellow brushes back my hair, speaking calm as if I was a frightened pony who has yet to be broken, yet to feel a reign, yet wear a saddle

I ran, push back stool, December air, rain falling from my face and sky
No time for taming, garden digging to create fruit I will never eat from
But I like fruit and I like gardens and I like plowing fields, but I am no leaser, no heart-sharecropper, no squatter looking into pretty homes and sleeping on the floor while the homeowner is out

What god traced ink to paper, whose hand and leg and torso you have become
How did you pass the gates, the guards, the riddles, and the illusions- you must have stumbled upon some map that was meant for someone else, you thief in the night ignorant of the power of your actions and a vehicle for something greater then you

The suit you wear cannot abide to stand side by side to an ivory gown made of moonlight and other rather fanciful things; that the mind you choose to think cannot grasp the soul that you evidently and surprisingly keep- yet I understand its hunger, I hear its cry of lamentation at the remembrance of whose hand and leg and torso that I have become

Do I see a trace of Alice, wandering through the looking glass into a world that you’ve dreamt yet realize is different then you, a place you don’t belong, a place that is not home
Transform, click your heels Dorothy, do that strange little dance of normality and over-the-counter prescribed personality predicting the perfect pachyderm of passivity

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~ by ambur on December 28, 2011.

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