“Spiders in sawdust.”

Marbles on linoleum.
Macramé pine cones
and yarn spun pigeons.
Fears in front of us
appear all around us.
The ants descend a spiral staircase,
chewing our path
while the worms, wet, wonder,
“Where is the warbler?”

We will not fall for it
again.
The magician is dead
and God
presides before His
coffin;
A rusty bouquet
trembling on top
the player piano
fingering Chopin.

One by one,
men become stone
memories
and chiseled statistics.
Still, we stand to claim
we will not fall for it
again.
The magician is dead
and the Earth is oblivious
that we ever believed in anything
more than death, squeezing us.

Mid-afternoon, the sun
is covered in cloud
and we are left wet,
wondering where she is gone.

narrative poem written on 07-11-2011 by: on mattkane.com
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