DEARBORN ALE

There is a minstrel without any words

he opens the call with a dark

side of blue

his wind is without willow

as he stands by the words

of his father

waiting for the time of the word

to get through to his walker

his time is not sure

he begins with a flow

then stop with a noose

around his head

where it does not handle

a flood of tears

from his eyeless wonder

which is not for him

to choose.

 

There isn’t a word without knowing

who isn’t here where he walks without

trying to stop

for he knows it isn’t the weird

who win

but the sum of all

squares, where there isn’t a truth

but the start of the funny

times of Eden and the

work is done.

COPYRIGHT BRUCE E SAUNDERS 2020

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