The Passing

Written by: Alan Reed

Through pink glasses aiming Northward 
Arctic lights and arrows quiver 
The city life drags the final sword 
As a sugar shack lilts with the river 

The bow is his selenite 
Mantra to foe, making them shudder 
The amulet is his kryptonite 
A tiller man now with no rudder 

Longer boats to take him away await 
Tacking slowly to avoid live minds 
Leave a trail of very odd gait 
Lowering his remains below water lines