Someday was yesterday,
the dreams have all gone,
they’ve flitted away
somewhere windy and warm.
We’ve gathered their remnants,
in ancient pine boxes,
free of the rain
and the storm.
The snow has begun,
the frost has bespoke
a shimmering lace,
to weal for the roke.
They’ve tilled up the soil,
with rust on the plow,
free of the thoughts
they evoke.
Tamarind honey,
sweet spices and hue,
a plump little mushroom
is dusted with dew.
The loam in the cave,
that was fertile with hope,
now silently suffocates
under the slope.
The twilight now beckons,
from dawn until dusk,
cry vultures from sky
to a farrowing husk.
Borne of a stillness,
that wontless disease,
a boredom of banal,
and do-as-you please.
Sounds of a trumpet,
the gods gasconade,
worry not for
all the money they’ve made.
John Allen