The Mouth of Decay
This young pawn was homeless and exhausted.
Sleeping in an overgrown city lot.
A flat piece of cardboard for a bed.
Cattail and wildflowers for walls.
A ceiling of bluish gray.
Slow roasting over a fiery dream.
This Pawn turned into a whispering rose.
Right there on that cardboard bed...
But only when the restless mind
gave away its soul to sleep and time.
Afterthought:
***** thing, this king of circumstance.
With crown of mist and robes of black.
Comedic cascade of karmic darts.
That morph into Queen Anne's lace and metal meadowlark.
Time will never turn its bow to yesterday,
but will spin the stars into the murky miracle of decay.
This Pawn cleansed the soul of self.
Whisked away the briar.
Left its humble drool upon
the toothless mouth of yesterday....
and wore the crown if only for a day.
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