life was a matterhorn of its own;
conquering it would take a master.

i, but a legionaire of the Legion
fell swiftly in line, began the march.

bright blue iron-on knee patches neoned
the lack of wealth, stature, meaning.

what was a sailor to do with no wind?

i hailed a passing tern she said: 'no riders.'
nickle, dime, dollar...you pay what i feel like.

pockets elephant-eared out: ticket to maturity.
shunned for so long; the lashes steadily grow.

the Swan grows, beauty seeming a side-order;
skill at life, the needed truncheon for Earth,

found in the hearts' understanding of the Other.

03/19/2011

Posted on 03/19/2011
Copyright © 2026 Charlie Morgan