it is still dark outside with morning

yesterday
two all-natural green peas fell under my mother's dining room
table
rested in the center of the all-wool burgundy weave,
birthed by unknown hands somewhere
in India or perhaps China, the tag of origin
long gone

a tapestry is brewing, I smell its sediments:
obsidian snowflakes inside, opals of fire outside,
an omen to Gunga Din's last brigade, pearls to swine,
swine to a lost island, island to sky, sky to the almighty
garbage decay of life, flashes of insight break down
like Strontium, silver-white or yellowish-gold
life, however, is not alkaline
its acid rubs you raw and the skin peels away
sweet the bone

you are robbed by theives and disrobed by angels

tap. tap-- to a distant drum
rattle rattle, fear is a dancing bear
scraping a branch against the window
heroes are a dime a dozen, how much is a medal worth?

between closed hands and clenched mouth
the dead can dance, ancient parchment, yellowing
the soul is a wasteland
cast the dice,
snake eyes every time

a solitary bugle calls Reveille on one side
plays Taps on the other.

morning comes bright and bold, dark and
full.


~A
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"As the eagle was killed by the arrow winged with his own feather, so the hand of the world is wounded by its own skill." ~ Helen Keller