Sitting on this park bench,
In the deep fog.
Mixing smoke & ashes –
With the mists.
This is sadly no dream:
But can remain a spell.
Headlights in the dark.
My orange cherry drinking in the photons.
Shirley.
This summoning is for you,
To resurrect your crass wit.
Dry humors.
From the Alzheimers –
We’ll both inhabit within our times,
Staggered & callous.
Witch Playing Necromancer.
Summoning clarity,
From fragments of shattered memories.
Will my crystal lens become marred?
These cold grey piercing eyes –
Losing focus.
Becoming foggy.
Irony is all around us.
Seldom have to go looking.
So Wake.
Shirley. \\ Surely.
