we are the caravan children and i will leave you by nightfall,
float through thick shields, veils, membranes of defeat, of resignation,
of unsurpassed beauty. we are the caravan children, a mirror cracking
from side to side, promises worn like a crown of carnations.
from dawn to dusk - a creaking carrige past victorian buildings,
tall, coarse palaces draped in egyptian silk,
moth eaten cotton dresses covering legs and lamp shades, a collection
of yellow stamps and faded postcards, violets, pharaoes,
a venetian mask in a stranger's window.
what does freedom taste like crystal
what does it taste like to be flying
carried through the hour of the wolf
we dream of dahlias - the slow strokes of a paint brush, crude oil, a linen canvas set
to flames, distorted faces with serpent eyes lunging from the heat waves.
we dream of violets - gypsy soldiers standing in line outside a stranger's apartment,
heavy breathing, their smudged reflections in the moonlight, frosted glass, tainted.
what it tastes like to be flying - winter apples, warm cider, mud, clay, grime.
we dream of roses, we dream of peonies,
a venetian mask weeping shades of purple.