Acrid smelling
Laundry day.
All the women
Delegate
The crafty swiftness
Of the
Fold.
Sunlight pouring down
On you,
Flooding through
And soaking
You.
Hurricanes a holiday
From the sweat
Across your chest.
Someday maybe
Come to you.
Someday heaven
Will come too.
From the coma they
Comply to all suggestions
That are lies.
Sieve through this fine
Tea with gold.
Find the silver
That corrodes.
Temper tantrums
Left the red
The jelly crust
Across your head.
Contingents of
Common place
Calling us the empty
Core of the human race they see
Crumbling towers and
Crude debris.
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