Maybe hate is bold
in print and web
calling names
types
races
reducing a feeling to a face
and the weather is cold
in wintertime
when hate freezes
and joy squeezes
turning pyramids to circles
and circles to spheres.
Maybe yesterday was broken
and tomorrow seems similar
but familiar faces
in hard circumstances
will keep the wind coming
will keep the now flowing
and the brightest bulb glowing
and the strangest sphere floating.
Maybe the dusk smells ripe
and bleach stock is sold
and everything ends as it begins
with a deep stare through polished windows
the door is closed
the smoke is on
the cat is playing
and we're saying its over
under bomb shadows
and morgue lights
but the pyramid's broken
and turned into a circle
and the circle to a sphere
and the sphere into a star
that shines the brightest light
the one that seduces plant limbs
to grow and tickle.
So maybe life is strange
and parades with anger becomes war
but the horses are kept in a stable
and the weapons are held
breaking families
provoking
as the bold hate remains unpolished
as my shoes.