Sarah's Chime
It came around in time.
Not a pewter dime but your silver chime
delighting the eyes of a sleep-deprived moth,
awakened from nightmares in chloroform froth.
Each muttered lie which lessens the blind,
(that my eyes, yet blinking, chased once behind)
whose stale shriek of shekels tempt tender-throats’ trust
(from far-reaching lecterns of razor-burned dust)
promise false profits, their cheeks full of rue,
bankrupt, unable to quarantine you.
11/30/2017
Copyright © Phillip Garcia | Year Posted 2017
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