How fleeting truth is.
Lying dead, along with
broken campaign signs.
Deep in shaggy grass.
With each retelling of the story,
it ain’t worth much look.
Cicadas’ sing an anthology
of blossoming lies.
And the crows avoid eye contact
But grey feathers remain,
caught in the stadium lights.
Sick of life, I call it sick.
A Wandering Poet 