Her arms are wrapped around a million dreams
who’s inhabitants snap and attack
then recede,
always attentive to the shift of her likes.
A pre-apocalyptic protocol to inspire a million more
longing for the intrinsic relationship this one has been caressing since birth.
The boy touches the feather in his hat,
he pulls the hat off to closer examine it’s immaculate beauty,
a pigeon feather?
a pigeon feather, the grays mingling to perfectly with the whites
immaculate as the red armed man
with a swarming body of eyes
who walks, guided by the flying umbrella queen
through green undulating tides of change.
The spacious grace she’s conceived and constructed
arduously adorned and carefully caressed into a fun house of creative furry.
She’s gathering about her an army
microscopic titans
who’s bodies shape shift into the exacted forms she needs
This war will not be televised
at least, not in the normal sense of the word,
The only screen that’s important to this battle is that which projects
the subjects onto the objective field of the minds eye
where YOU are the messenger, capturer, pertinent articles of revelation revealer.
Your heart explodes at the notion,
bulldozers push mountains of flat screens into a forgotten and useless pile
miles and miles line the barren fields
marking on her body
the exodus avenues
which lead to renewal