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{plea of the guilty} ernest williamson III between the branding of the wondrous lace pitted in the bosom of Aunt Lana settled in the twitching left hazel eye of Grandma Lee I see a mirage of mirrors casting casts for shows with no humor holding fast to banter from weak minds spittle from strong winds heralding minutiae for gold silver and bronze people of the world shed blood below the angelic sway left to right through drifting white clouds coasting and judging with no recollection of my unique recording of supernal squeals from squealing doldrums rapt in broken logic beneath the greenery and seeping further into the Summer of no relent |
