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Hanged Man
A sand weight walking in a noon
Slumber stutter and sun moon fiasco
Lit morning and walking in shrill
Not many come keeping away the judge
As finally roaming as a sand world casted
The REM moods of inside mettle
And the sandman scoops for noontime
Abreast be less full of oneself
Hushing those whispers by a bent elbow brush
The trees escaping into blue
Yet the furnishings swooping the mystique
Varied by the dreamscape so flash
The moon tearing, the sun flaring
Upside down in the gases of apocalypse
Cunning the steady swoop of the pendulum
Clipping the utterances of a Latin hazard slay
Copyright ©
Julie Scanga
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