KenethBranaghHamlet“Preaching to stones….”
How often idle dusk
squeezes the groan of the last red sun ray
And then all visible sinks, with haste, into a wicked darkness
Stabbed with the inner voice
That shouts through the mind’s bark
breaking the reality show transit head walls.

300px-Edmund_Fitzgerald-USACECompulsively lost is the wave plot thread,
Misread and forgotten story headlines hang
on the sunset fall dread
where caged are all decisions in ulcerous doubts,
buried in the deepest waters
and hushed with the domestic silent myth
about the mighty sunken last century iron ore ship
once furiously snowed-in, buried as a matter of a far gone bottomless past,
that suddenly arises in a coinage of the alive broadcast host–
Fireworkseverybody thinks it’s just a ghost
but it’s real;
riding with the stowaway on the invisible horizon edge madness–
sizzling on the grill of that known history lessons and words;
all fizzled up
popping the-end-less
fireworks stars
and breaking up “the king of shreds and patches” over the nightly vastness sky….

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