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© Richard J Tilley. All Rights Reserved.
balance = properly appraised
balances = property appraised
Last month I wrote a rather important poem. It is important because it focused down on my testimony and insight into the United States. It is not easily understand or deciphered. However, such are the conditions I can say I am a witness to. If there is an afterlife, I will offer what insights I can. I tried to do something about it once in this life. That didn’t turn out well. Everything went wrong. And such as that tradition.
Without Homes and Dressings
Mathematically speaking, you say,
Wind turbines exist for soft landing evenings
For us to sing dull fairy songs under the rites of night’s passions
And collapse in on each other like warm milk to a tyrant.
Mathematically speaking, you have said,
The heart that wanders, but still does not break,
Does not find a home under torrential glass and harpoon sidewinders.
Any other honest heart that would take it, for a moment to stare,
Would only cause more sorrow and commit to promises too narrow for yesterday
Compared to where it came from, apart from unearthed clay breasts.
Forensically speaking, you insist,
We should have crossed paths like sidewalks leading to nowhere
Unsung on doldrums of rehearsed entries and scolded snow under waste
And the speaker’s iron from the foment of opposition
Where cabbage forced into a spread did not excite you or chain you to America’s glory
For whistle towns and tossed electronics. We did take every care to invite you near
Dog-made indecision under the cover of happy endings.
You have not the forensic experience or the financial authority
From which to draw from like ache that will never be forgotten or undressed the same.
To this end, your heart wanders, always home inside itself, always a witness of America,
And there is no home anymore, but the forced mistake of dreams, sold to you
For the Tuesday afternoon buffet, where your body was on the menu.