What is it like to be carouseled in the circular dreams of fools, a play ride with suspended hopes that really takes you nowhere. Well, wher
What is it like,
to be shackled to the chains of freedom,
to the glee of greener pasture? What is it like
to be carouseled in the circular dreams of fools,
a play ride
with suspended hopes that really takes you nowhere.
And a few weeks ago, in my daughter’s old stroller,
I tended to the wren’s eggs
and watched the hatched birdies
call out feathers to their wings.
And you wonder why I refuse to learn an old anthem
where there is nothing old or new to grasp.
Well, where the young are haunted by the nostalgias of the old,
who entrusts the future to the hands of destruction?
Who?
I promise you, I am not angry, I am just tired of believing
in a future led by fools.
And if you hear fool one more time, bear with me.
I come from a nest of oafs.
I come from a nest, of oafs.
Source: Poetry (May 2026)













