it's there
The small red gas can points it’s nozzle to the sky. Thin and yellow, meandering the message written high. Behold the flying princess, whose mantle is obscure. Spread far and wide, her roundabouts Are wasted and obscure. You’ll never know her reasons, the operative neglector reigns, for one and all who flop and curse on graves improper chains. But there it is Neglected still, white purple foxgloves grow. Around the gas can, small and faint, it cracks it’s metal so, of hope and dreams and marble thrones, and parapets of peace, replace it with the many marks, mistaken never cease, of wheelchairs cars and blenders. Of broken landscapes bent. Admiration knows no bounds, infinite and spent. |