Trapped !

Trapped !
      Behind the clouds
        sailing high, over.
     No air makes the sounds
           come aloud.
       When the sky falls
           and no one is around,
           does it make a sound ?
     Watch these fingers tremble
        over wilted leaves ——
            is it still a tree ?
               or is it free
          over the Aegean blue,
      orange settling on primrose
             makes passion blossoms ——
        trembling under my nose.
       Still, I bring them up.
           Where do the stairs go?
      I don't want nothing in my cup —
          stop asking,
              stop touching,
                stop laughing,
             stop the traffic,
                 stop the nationalists,
              stop the anarchists;
                  trapped !

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  • Months through the ANTHOLOGY

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