i
drive many hours
through
ghost towns, abandoned
poetry
groups, planting words
with
pants and images
with
wings to flutter
inside
hearts like butterflies
decorating
the walls
hosts
have left behind
for
guests passing
through
zombie towns to post
their
songs; but the brainless
seldom
see music
leaving
me to dance alone
with
not even a single applause
testing
my inner mettle
to
roam the towns
bereft
of taste and depth
of
rational, observable substance
henry
victor 11.12.2018
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