Author: Steven Robertson

WOKEN to alien surroundings:
FIELD of broken stones and grass long since
BROWN; this place an erstwhile
OVARY of civilizations now barren.

OPIUM of the masses ready to deliver, no
CHOCK to stop the wheels of demand, no
CYNIC’s warning heeded; the will of the
HORDE must be sated.

YIELD sign ignored, tires squealing and sliding in the
SLUSH darkening on the roads, water and ice
REPEL the tread and send cars spinning in a
REVUE of whirling dervish-mobiles.

PLIER marks from a million times I had to
RESET the grip on the bolt made the edges
FUZZY, but at least the noise that kept us
AWAKE has changed keys.

ELFIN fish dart in and out of the
WRECK strewn across the ancient
CANAL. A family of predators is hard to
ELUDE…doo doo doo doo doo doo doo

FRANK could play anything from country to
SALSA, and though his dear wife was deaf, they
FORGEd ahead making music a major
PLANK in the family platform.

DEBIT my account, even though it
GRATEs on my nerves––
LOUSY room only has
VALUE to the mice in the walls.

DITTY started, but the singer carries the tune in a
SIEVE, the band struggling mightily to
ADAPT, but mostly just praying for an escape
CHUTE to whisk them away…

OZONE smell fills the air where the
QUITE close––too close––lightning struck like a
NINJA. Me taking cover? Not so much. No
AWARD for grace or poise forthcoming.

SUAVE, debonair, I’m sure I look; by hook or by
CROOK I thought I’d win them all over––until reality
THREW me a curve ball, and I at last
BEGIN to see it’s a funhouse mirror before me.