22300
The scent of wreaths
permeate the air
a funeral
for truths never buried
petals ~
crisp like parchment
w h i s p e r i n g . .
what is mourned
is not yet gone
carve the ears of asses
into steeds'
sutured silk
where coarse hair bristles
hooves painted gold
to mimic grace
But the bray
still cracks the dawn
a dissonant hymn . .
The beast knows its name
even when we have forgotten
In the hall of mirrors
tongues knot into
origami lies
Complicit duplicity ~
curls like smoke
from shared cigars
a s h . .
settling on every handshake
We embrace the sword
pretending the glass
is not a blade
splitting the self
into halves that never meet
Evil brews in teacups
s i p p e d . .
between furrowed brow
and frivolous thought
Its rhythm
syncs with purposed intent
hums
beneath the lullabies
and endless lies called progress
tradition
necessity
a thorned vine
crowned as laurel
When the last wreath rots ~
will we inhale
the decay and say
p e r f u m e . ?
Or stand finally
in the fields . .
n a k e d . ! ?
persecutors and saints
all staring into the void’s raw throat
until it stares back
u n b l i n k i n g . .
and asks:
Who Have You Pretended
Not to be . . ?
© mingoáo
