The Real Question

There is always someone you owe
in sadness, sorrow, and misery.

The white crow speaks of joining
him in murder here among a cross.

Drunk in a tavern of wild animals
and revolution, a nameless street.

The black moose dances and plays
an accordion in the center spiral.

Asking you to join him in naked
folly, laughing the night away.

Do you dance, do you slay, can you
even choose with souls on the line?

A gypsy moon, above a gypsy caravan
beckoning you to come along set free.

Who’s dream is this anyway, how did
you get here, and how do you escape?

The real question, do you really want
to, and why would you choose to leave?

In this place where inhibitions are set
free, the fool is crowned the holy king.

 

©James Dennis Casey IV

 

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