Songs like ghosts trickle out of a tired speaker traces of child
melodies melded into the cone. Hanging.
Dangling by a barely seen filament.
Extruded wires like tendons freshly pulled
by an otherworldly bird of prey.
Once Ice Cream Visions
frozen, sloppy a syrupy drop
illumined by the sun
becomes one with
Makeshift Death defining
shape shifting Caravan.
Oh, but to have a stick!
Still with the shock writ and writhing
like a stitch pulled far too soon.
Ice Cream! Come and get your ice cream!
Images of bright balloons
now becoming clouds of tension.
Pale faces frozen in time
seem animated though atrophied, disengaged
dismantled a perfect group
of poster children for the soon
forgotten. The never was. The missing.
Societal soon forgotten
A puddle of none.
Grey is now a child’s favorite color.
NO choice! One pallor fits all.
A pall ing. Hovers over the crowd.
Shroud that silences.
A child’s voice rings
out seeing the parade of the dead.
Normal. Expected. Always expect the unexpected.
The new normal.
Helpless Hero’s all.
They just never asked to be.
By Bill Fricke