Strange Illusion
They are commentating as they pass by,
commentating to their wards of Enterprise –
and in passing by; my form is
present in only a past tense,
as if, as if but upon an augment again –
my life casting no shade but shadows of doubt,
acutely aware I am upon a
realm of those whom murdered and the year –
be nothing more than a frown,
it is, only a reference we have never understood,
never deep dived the meaning like
a rule of algebra,
as it is only a convention and one of many
that casts an illusion for the confidence of …….
‘………… I hear the gully cave again as angels duel demons!’
We call the fires of Arkansas and Mississippi ‘the Deep South,’
yet hooded men expressed no depth,
no wealth of being should I perchance
an equation ‘Always are exhibiting to guests.’
A homely bird was strung,
a bird only ever concerned with family,
a homely bird was strung,
but within this realm of murdered –
the song and warble won right over the hate
of dead dwarf a giant;– ‘whose defiance to the shroud
made metamorphic marble quiver in the wake of dead, people!’
Always, tired and angered would never
dare excuse, dumbfounded too – no explanation
could be said of the slaughter –
for in enquiry,
‘the killer knew not why, either!’
It is but a strange illusion to believe the white
cloaks championed purity when malevolent in deed,
what stranger still,
is an attempt to strangle the song of bird
only knowing family,
and there again the guide makes
fervent excitement to our tourist realm
we know not of,
then finer yet,
the warble of the goose – not in defiance,
but in the champion of kindred song, and human, rights!
Michael J Waite. 16th October 2025. For Jones, Garrison, Tyner, Coltrane, so many more.
‘Love, Always.’
