I’m old, wearing purple, silver hair
to my shoulders. I need a red hat
that doesn’t match. Poetic justice
here at the descent of the cold times.
All my misgivings rise. It is now in
the glooming fall that ancient practices
shift, their humble roots trapped under
lies twisting history. The victims of
church and state reduced to Boo!
and torturous excess at groaning
tables. The archetype of the genocide
purge of the Americas celebrated
casually painting good guy clothes
on He Who Must Not Be Named.
Never is it more obvious
the gilt cracking, exposing dark
stains. In our chosen costumes
we witness the hidden shadows
or turn away with bright
artificial smiles and beg
for treats. I’m going to your
party as a poem.