There has always been a strange way to gather persons near.
A tune to mania in fire.
Satire from a funeral pyre.
Members of the good household.
The union of delirium.
Held their place with color.
back-handed their cast.
One black, one red, one blue…
Each with their anthology of dues.
Fifty years young, I ponder that avocation.
My father’s way of isolating hate.
compassion meant escape.
love to a ghastly iron gate.
Housed had been the laughter on a two-party line.
Inside friends…difficult to find.
Yet, with all these years of postmortem reflection.
It had been the quiet huntress who kept the everyday, subdued.
I am awed still by the hidden portrait of pain she installed.
Meticulously setting the colors of my small world,
for a fall.