Little Crimes

Little Crimes :

The rhymes in the trees

Are old and diseased,

But, oh, they sound so pretty to me.

The children wait in line

With jars of alkaline

To place at the feet of the Glorious Spine.

All the little crimes

That brighten their lives

Made them dance

Like widows against

An iridescent sky

Where the oceans collide

And shower the land

With fire again

The minions of the wind

Cough and spin,

Rattle the cages of the invalids.

The convalescing rhymes

Embalm their own minds

And take to the waves of an infinite sea.

All the little crimes that brighten their lives

Made them dance like widows against

An iridescent sky where the oceans collide

And shower the land with fire again.