Fred Aiken Writing

waterfalls gathering stones in the wreckage of homes built
on the precipice of of far away horizons
blazing purple gems glistening in the suffocating toxicity built

on a heroic journey; traversing deep within the worst conditions known
to man, mammal, Marmaduke,
lying willfully ignorant of facts laid bare to the bone and picked apart

in orderly fashion-show-forbidden-lakes-burning fires on marshmallow’s
dreams, with ruinous fossils developing acidic tones to tell a nonexistent future
what’s what;
what’s that;
where’s your hardhat, there’s beware signs all over