Nonsensical, since the day the illusion was conceived.

An American haunting.

Where homeless funeral flowers, long since dead and gone…

Are the only remnants left for a breaking dawn.

 

Perhaps, a ‘song of silence’ could be how to truly run away from me.

This watchful adjustment, travels great heights.

Forms an ache around my feet.

Stares at me…from the backseat.

And, the only retreat?

An occasion fitful sleep.

 

In the gray lace to an ivory cloud.

You take hold.

The ‘perhaps of life’…

Occurring more often than I had once been told.

Thus…

Your haunting.

Your notions…

Will stay with me until I am beyond old.

“The residual of Catholicism, hangs off me.  Like a veil of cigarette smoke.  The fear?   Who or what will judge me next!”

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