QED

poesy

just pretend, we’re friends again?

Those days
when our umbrellas
sponsored us like orphans
so many walks—-so lonely a road
made clear our lovely intentions.

But,
we left those things there
within genial steps
as a clearing the way of sorts
for our failed improvisations.

No handshakes exist here anymore
just light embraces
made to____
stamp our impressions
and consecrate a future island purgatory
free from the fodder of our willed impostors.

Post-generation
the surrounding invested impresarios lurk
behind sign posts and marbled prisons
corrupting fortune’s placement
of the cards printed messages—-
against us.

The alternative route out of here
marks us all
for those listless days spent
forecasting moments
now shadows of the former
while we reconsider at the same time
our next holiday attempt
to subdue the lark.

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