Lost Invitation

A glint diaspora, the streets in disarray lead us

all to slumber underneath the caving ceilings

and the crackling and clinking of the creeping

callous climate we've ignored as we

danced in silos with our lungs filled with

the crisp June air afloat glistening torsos

that

protected us from the vile inner-workings

of the gutter. Our limp wrists

washed aback effervescence and now its time to

wash away the filth and grime

the dashing white collars left on the marble

steps. Step-by-step, we know the protocol

the procedure, the groundwork laid by the

shouting dolls with snatched scarlet wigs whose

deaths are an expiry removed from the textbooks

and never relayed to their concerned

mothers. This year's lacuna

concludes with enshrined

gasped teenagers omitting their

names from the registration form.

Where is the pride found in

obliterated names and amounting

bills that no creditor badgers a phone

line for? Today's call

is a call to arms–bare arms

lined with scar tissue dating back to '69.

The influx and slew of televised verbiages

applauded by those whose parents

forced verses down their throats

will prevail if

we don't help regurgitate

all the generations that coagulate

the pathways to love. The pathways

that we've covered in shimmer

are now being gutted by the hands of a

vague yet intentional

agenda. Luckily, we've learned to float this

month and can lift up those who have

fallen oh so low

that they've dehumanized our

children to monsters

knowing very well that

god only made one mistake:

making us too beautiful to be mistaken

with 535 fiends

and nine narcissists

maddened by their lost invitation

to the parade.