We embrace all allies
(close),
and align our enemies
(closer).
Maybe it makes
the heart grow fonder?
And shall we wander
straight up, fall far
for stars and
call our sacred selves
astronomically saved?
Shall the day crave
aspen song
and ashen wish,
all about the angled
swash of wave?
We
(the ardent rabble)
babble,
Mama, may I?
(June, July, August,
waver)
my own small way
to
the unraveling of anger.
Yes, you
may.
Prompted by Miz Q. Come play!
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I give that a triple “A” (although the poem is major league!) De bomb!
**waving for all the assonance that was resident, but not asinine** i’m all in
Alrighty then 😉