An Accolade

We must love him, our earnest
lover of the brambleberry rain

A minister to the wanderers,
A delivery man and an angel.

Dehydrated, he grows anyway,
surging along this technicolor path.

He is lucky and loves luckily,
babbling in acute intoxication.

He calls us artists, collectively,
constructing esteem where there was none,

we who always understand, attempt to
interpret, decipher our sisters,

to inject the fiend in our ribs
with the venom of reality.

Lucid.
I believe in my dreams.

Others sleep in dens of dollars and coves of
possession that cannot be carried beyond

the closing of this door and the next,
made more of smoke then solid wood.

We build invisible love with intangible
tools and it fills us to capacity.

I am gathered into this deep levity and
in its contagion, it bolsters my own.