Coquetting the Impasse
combustions of black
are the deep splash of flak
in sallow skies,
burning top-contrast
while well behind gates
he impatiently waits,
his Lordship,
clean shaven and stately
and all’s by design
as his entourage dines
on red wine, fine bread,
and the skyline
though debris showers down
covering country and town,
not one gentleman’s
found to be frowning
as they waltz in the ashes
of stock market crashes
our last satellite
snapshot flashes
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