In the desert of days that stretch before us,
I am the rogue harlequin
with strong man, dwarf, ballerina, and buffoon as my companions,
a festival of fans to attend.
“One must grow fat ‘fore one grows thin,” the strong man postulates, as
ballerina bends to plié
before her mother beckons,
but a rosebud never budges;
her thorn is stubborn.
And though we are not lost,
we have no real direction.
This summer without end
offers little refreshment
to a troop of troubadours
sick of the blues and
bound for greener pastures,
or so we must pretend.
© 2024 | K.F. Hartless
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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