Monday, October 10, 2016


The way this path doth cross
the gorge, so far below us water
running. These are treetops, and 
this is sky. My, my, are we not high?
I search for truth among these landed
gentry  -  men with suits and silver
studded heels. Finding none, I just
move on, my wicket a waste 
for the holding.
A Klondike game of the well-sourced
all; enemies and friends together.
Everyone looks out, from this high
perch, just to see what it is they see.
I see Annabelle; I see me.

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