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



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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