The Dead Would Buy Ways To Eastern Promises

The Gold Is Peeling Off Her Stoic Ensemble,
Flakeing And Flirting With Potential Escape,
In The MidDay RushHour It Rusts And Waits,
For The SweepStakes To Reveal The Weakness InGrained,
Slivers In The Melting Pot Glitter Like God In EveryOne,
Quotas To Be Performed In Sacred Closet Rituals,
She Examines The Daisys First And Then The Carnations For Pushers And Baby-Faced Romantics,
Trying The Jury For The Pews,
Reading From The Cue-Card Holder's Agony For Signs Of Depression,
Another Safe Check For ReCession,
Tumbleing The Bob To Prick Her Thumb...
...
And In Her Deep Sleep Dream A Thousand Islands,
On Each Island A Hidden Valley Of The Dolls,
Ceramic UnBlinking And UnCareing...
...
...
The Trees In Their Arbor Harbour The Mantle,
For Legs To Dangle,
With No Stilts To Widow Her NutCracker Suite
The Dolls Could Speak Like The Sparrows Lost In Souls To Carry,
BeFore The Pillow Can Be Felt...
...
A WetLand For Estranged Vineards...
...
Hers Is A Minded Oblivion,
With A Make-Up Case And A Mirror,
Smoke In The Fields,
Ashes From All That Was Once Shuttered From Flight...
...
Floating On Past The Carnival Lights,
MeaningLess In The Spread And Lunge,
Bitten InTo Cheapness Like Satiny Wax...
...
Buttoned Down,
And ButterFlyed Above The Fade.