Ill-Framed Constitution

Illogical pit stops
Waste deep in the forest,
Infecting the shrine zone,
Project our dark skies.
When under the curtain,
Where nothing is certain,
While staring at shark eyes,
The festival dies.
There’s no calibration
Or central location.
The law is erased by the lie.
The wailing wind sings.
We’re out on the wings
Of these things we know
Never can fly.
And they tilt toward goodbye.

Posted by

I'm a writer living in Massachusetts.