All delirious and bitter,
whispers in blue-shadow light—
“needs must,” she says,
the TV on, urging their mad dreams
of what if—
when the lathered red lust is over,
and death chants crushed,
who recalls us?
Through mist, I watch the moon—sleep, sing, shine.
And as the fiddler sprays a thousand diamonds into the sky
they soar, time-aching with echoed whys.
My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. This time, she really gave me everything (except echo). She obviously knows what’s going on in the world.