Why The Dream

in Poetry

If I were one to thunder
the end of the world by proxy
the last Sun rise by fiat
a disappearance of here
and now

might ad hoc memories matter
and coalesce to nullify verdict
to shame the Sun to rekindle
the filament of fear
and wow

 

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I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

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