let down your hair and be free


52

when one’s life is riding on a crest
there is no revelry
in excess, for the stuff of dreams

is what we were built for
waves of empty glasses
wine of forever lost friends
fortune for careless returning

i’ll slaughter time. for a second
april showers, distant silhouettes
time is but a dream, across skylines

there nothing i could find
north of the citadel, in the ripened hour
the setting sun tells it’s
time to depart, time for deserted gloom

to pass, like the celebrities of flowers
right on queue, the phoenixes have blown
away, like muse at the palace gardens

the aroma of the last guests has departed
it’s time for the autumn crane
to be romantic again & embrace surrealism.