In this three tiered transparency
laughter hits me with tears of history.
This poverty assembles its attributes;
detaching the beautiful sad glow
beside me, sparkling.
The proofs are washed in red
Forced to confront the dregs.
Eyes utter landscapes
intact.
Pleading liberties by name
in the pockets of soldiers.
The underbrush echoes,
strained and off-shot.
Under deconstruction
scattered places extend
to where I must attend.
Fallen absence marches
and is privately eaten by fire.
©-Sonja J. Johnston 18-Mar-2014
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