Poetry

The spirit hovers. 
I am not interested in a 
séance. Let me come face to face 
with the book to share clean 
or unclean thoughts. 
 
Not able to print my deep 
angst. A clash of cultures. I 
will call the unprinted scream. The 
dismembered limbs begin 
a dance of unfolding 
the hate. 
 
It was a jig. 
Of scaffoldings for the 
peacocks to shed their wings. 
Everyone was falling for the green-gold 
to be embossed on the dust 
cover of life.