TO THE SHADE OF THE LETT PUPPETEER

Big fragile boxes –

Some full of bones.

Floating boxes flying boxes,

A universe of boxes shooting out in every direction

Like a thousand open looks.

The breeze is up from Hades tonight,

And seeps a cold dispassion.

Across the planet surface winds swirl,

making ghosts

Amidst the dry leaves and frosts.

My ears are mourning flutes.

 

(C) Tobeimean Peter 2011

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