Author: Steven Robertson

MAN GAzes into time with
BOOZY lenses fogging his judgment:
AMAZEd at the fall from gilded yesters, yet grasping
TOKENs of hope for improved morrows.

FLAIR of royalty replaced by disguise, the king’s night got darker.
”TRUST you?!?!? You know what Saul has done to all the Seers and
TAROT readers in the country? Hardly any of us even
EXIST anymore! Who was it you wanted to summon, anyway?”

MOUTH of the mountain pass held, tensions walking the edge of a
CLIFF, waiting for the tide of attack to come in––each
TROOP coming to terms with the inevitable, not hoping for a
FREAK stroke of luck, but eager for iron and bronze.

CAMEL-backed topography sends your stomach through your feet:
QUITE a difference between peaks and bottoms on the curved road.
ODDLY enough, it seems to us every time, that One remains
LOYAL to vows, to promises, to love, to us.

OCTET of aspiring stars
STRUT onstage with a semblance of poise, hoping this
CAMEO will be the bended knees before the jump into pools of
MONEY.

HONEY, you’d better not
POUT, You’d better not cry;
PRANK your brother one more time, the
PRICE you’ll pay is high

TRIPE on the tray: Marcus a really sus-pect
STOIC moonlighting to fund his meditations as a
SHORT-order cook at Waffle House, right on the
VERGE of getting the orders right this time.