Poetry

As small spheres of opaque glass
I Live sweeping the ashes
eruptions of illusions
from every hungry look they call celebrated
The joke is on disused longings of a closed-book story
while only a few dwarf
bordering on the parables of a delightful old pagan feel
The curtain is let down a precipice on which
transform the wind into little desire to taste ourself
Becoming so '
no people
but actors
the part of themselves in a colored robe hypocrisy
Be happy with what you have
might make you
something humanly unbearable