Laugh with me

The Hyena hunches under the Poet’s

tree, alone and wholly


to the pollen of his coat

markings; the drip



of his words


scavenge the remains

of day, as he awaits

idly in scent; the elixir

of pure memory

and when the sun rises

to fall, he laughs a laugh

mistaken only

for the incandescent



in the unsound

our deception of art lies

in our hungering for art

and this, the pilgrim of all

falls, as we do

in the fleeting sun,

into every moment of his life

with the colors of a shadow

intimate to his eye

that in growing sad

is granted

to be

more than itself

for in the scrap-bone

lays lost verse

preying long into his reserves,

grinding, cracking, and now set free

in the palpable essence

of the carrion of lost time

from between his laughing teeth;

lone hyena holds the world

found in our eyes

his cowardly frame, veiled

and plagued by decay

nurses all the invisible secrets

of the mosaic of scent, and still

he laughs a laugh

we will never comprehend

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