Shamans and debutantes await the procession.
Red macrame and torn eiderdown
Fleet, infusive where silver was lacking.
Who will float away inside this parade?
I tell the cellists to bolster their bridges,
Somewhere the chorus are warming their throats,
We wait in the crowd as the fables are rising,
barefoot to feel just where the fairytales end.
Take breath, take song, take foxtrot and clover,
But beware the rhythm that belies your step.
(c) Accidental Tentacles 2016