Sitting back on a packed bag of  someone else’s laurels.

Red, White and Blue, running from itself.

A total eclipse where only the forgotten come to play.

Hanging out to dry,

threadbare woolen socks

stray-8and,

dirty tiaras,

airing its aroma of

wine and roses.

Neighbors complaining of bi-polar posers.

Pressed on the changing winds, turned noses.

 

 

 

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