Tuesday, June 4, 2013

Summer Sonnet 6: Proust in Bed

Ensorcelled in these blighted chamber days
quicksilver mirrors flash a masquerade.
And from the hollow amber blaze
history marches on in the parade.

Passerby's recalling when and mourn
talismen mincing without rhyme or sense.
And as the music weeps forlorn
Vanishing notes of time remembrance.

Meandering bands wander through the crowd
wooden hobby horses tip and fall
drunken brass horns blare aloud
the augur drummer beats the final call.

Sortilege'd parades conjure to enslave
and guides you to your rightful grave.

-By Aurin Squire

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