slogans of these triumphant lost battles

cry out aloud at my threshold

I sit typing my tears

and the peacocks strutter

in the garden filled bloomed with  fantasies

rolls and rolls of freshly starched fabric

dance at their fingers

they chose the colors and the texture

to drape their fallen deformed shapes

 

 

ashamed of my naked staunch stupidity

I wonder how much more can I be amused

this forgery of intentions

the sheer apathy for those who walk by

nothing beats their enthusiasm…