white and passive pages
there’s always another circus
it’s a race to the bottom
could we win?

the red witch and the yellow anarchist
tried to lure me from my decline
but the green gardens were full
and the amber beer was final

wrapped in disassociated energies
there are always
voices
flowing in the ether
trapped
and ready to distort
our fragile realities

spiritual payment comes due
at the most obscure and obscene times
as too many hours
are spent
trying to discover love
only to find fleeting flesh
and makeshift plans rot
in the quiet union sky