"The Author is Poetic Always. Check out his original poetic license. "You
can eat his words if you have the stomach for it."
ENTER THE POET'S HAVEN THROUGH THIS ARCH
He doesn't
need it to drive a car, but He does need it to drive you crazy."
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Art,
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A narrow lengthy beaded nose,
Below a pair of square shaped eyes,
With darkened greasy eyebrows,
Upon which sits a swarm of flies.
Blues and yellows, golds and reds,
Reflecting off a dozen heads,
As around the pit of fire they dance,
As if within some frenzied trance.
Glistening bodies bedecked with paint,
Some will slip as if to faint,
Some will stand without constraint,
While others fall without complaint.
The smell of sweat now fills the air,
A smell of which they're not aware,
As arms and legs around them flare,
As though they're in some dire despair.
Piercing cries now fill the night,
Driven by some hidden fright,
The drums beat fast and louder now,
As we watch this awesome ghostly sight.
And when exhaustion hits its peak,
There's but the ground for them to seek,
And one by one they'll lie there soon,
Still ashes glowing in the gloom.
All masks are off, there's no more fire,
Just dirty bodies with little attire,
Lying on the dusty ground,
With but the dark of night around.
In the distance now faint sounds of drums,
Come from distant forested slums,
Perhaps around another fire,
But my eyes are filled with smoke and dust,
And my body now I must retire.
The natives rise and fade from sight,
With but a fleeting glance,
For they know there'll come another tourist,
Another night,
Another dance.
Michael Abramson