Air Apparent

micropoets of malaise
in a culture that prays
death unto fleeting
things-

the grammar of controlled chaos sings
a semi colon’s faults

but it’s had us
locked up 

centuries

in a storybook
penitentiary,

told no fairy tales of
our own could walk
beyond iron

gates.

A light
between the
bars our
only

leap of faith,

the years have grown long but
hard-pressed to play
along with aging

grace.

Line breaks taking paragraphs to
task for
never
changing their tune,

as sentries of
the days to dawn- but when
the world has gone to
Rapture,

our whole
story can be
captured on scraps in the wind,

whereas theirs will remain
a riddle forever
after.

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