We give thanks...for what...do you know...you don’t
remember cause if you did you might not be giving thanks
in the way of this celebration...cloaked in lies, wanton
stories believed not heard above the heads of those
throwing frisbies of distortion or surfing the waves of
transplanted thoughts...a bit sandy perhaps...gulped down like
a cheap tall icy of thrill going into the gut of denial...bees live
for flowers of color...what do you live for? do you know?
would you remember if you told yourself softly again
as you have a million times...yet you forget again
what stops this a-wakening from our burdensome sleep of lies
the pace keeps orbits moving like the planets heavy
ranging of the skies...procession is perhaps our call as well
not waking up in time out of this dream...will we or won’t we?
Copyright © Cynthia Cross | Year Posted 2019
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