Sarette's Reve De Mort: And Other Stories Of Not Quite Magical Realism

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Anna-Marie with her

Shotgun, walked with spurs

Barely attached

To her boots. Shivers.

Vert montagna drips

Sprinkling, sprinkling acid rain...

Crackling thunder claps.

The sunset goes down, raindrops to the dirt,

Not a time for death, or a fast growth spurt.

Midnight horizon, the darkness of closet noir.

No more churches or blasphemy when the dead

Does not hop from their graves, falling head

First into another oblivion, total darkness

All surrounds the illusion of one's life.

Dreams that match the inner darkness, wilting

Birth the decaying flowers, bye spring silking

Never worn by the brides of the crypt, shaking

Down to their very core, death on ancient shore.

A line of lively poetry, clipped short.

Anna-Marie with her

Shotgun, walked with spurs

Barely attached

To her boots. Shivers.

Montagna vert

During the off season...

All else corvid season.

Illusion

Of life and death.@@