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…
