oh God if we must
crawl on our hands and knees to
nothing that was ever a shrine
will we still be the ones
you made the stars for?
almost asked a child asleep
prescient and dreamy eyed.
not all your ragged roads can
end like this, smiled the Scarecrow
deep inside; though conscious
the taste of sawdust still abides
while sampling the royal ice cream.
and it's not the way we planned it,
the guards insist while kicking up
more than the powdered snow
in this : your final winter.
I won't collate these sorrows,
I won't was my clerical litany-
tuned to the tune of the copy machines
while the lions come and go
leaseless as the sun, unticketed
unwarned unwarranted with only a minor thorn
now and then, in a swiping paw
mary angela douglas 22 august 2014
