The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~Vladimir Nabakov

Monday, July 14, 2008

Irony Dreaming

The rain pours down on the desert beach,
as we walk to an empty classroom to teach,
and aerie stillness fills the space with screech.

Hailstones for a minute then hot sun is out,
screaming then laughing the next a pout,
and jaded by the greed of nothing about.

See-through shadows echoing holes of emptiness,
wealthy yet hungry with but a sad happiness,
crying their colorful tears of madness.

Brides wearing dresses in the shades of black,
as all the birds stop singing not even a squawk,
demanding to fly although their wings they lack.

Smoky world of insects, humans and creatures,
and camouflaged beings with distinct features,
distant ancestors they are but our teachers.

Safari empire now in flight and below seas,
our swimming dolphins are flying like bees,
and odd commodities to pay as breathing fees.

Miniature elephants are the sizes of cats,
and colossal animals resembling ancient rats,
they are made of glass, our most precious mats.

Yellow rain falling and the air becomes red,
killing everything in sight and reviving the dead,
as I lay paralyzed in my icy stone bed.

My world of irony the reverse of mime,
dreaming for a moment of a dreadful time,
neglecting S.O.S. sign in the highest prime.

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