Voices scream over the music.
Not art,
but hate.
These images dance like witches around a potion.
Circling
circling.
Circling,
Fronts and backs exposed in a photographic orgy.
Still the voices scream,
unintelligible, unintelligent things.
Leader of the line,
I cannot resort to following,
but I don’t want to be the one left behind.
My straightforward sentences
No longer answer my circular questions.
Between a cornerstone and this cold wall,
Ponder what you conjure,
As the truth rises like foam.
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