Stickmen

Stickmen


Patiently waiting the arrival of the vultures
In that enclosure packed with wounded warriors
Who jest about the war with a light heart.

The dancing sliver of the slithering light
Throws on the wall the blueprint of our future.
The light is black that plots our cross-eyed end.

Sliver of black light each aspiring to thrive
Thwarted yet each by a crossed bar that bars
All access to the consummate geometry.

Wounded we stare at the unresolved flux
On the blank wall where our fate flatly stalls.

Call me a stickman wrongly doodled and all
Two slivers crossed of unwieldy black light
Illuded and elided — serves us right.