The Sweet, Morose, and Somber Sweetness

Suspenseful Poem

Inka Jink, Inka Jink,

The sweet, morose and somber sweetness,

skirts by me with fetishes unrehearsed.

The old worn war heroes curtail into an avalanche of forgotten ghosts.

The tiny daffodils fit neatly between the fingers,

and somehow form a glove that

leaves no fingerprints  in the reflection of the mirror,

or was it the tomb, or the grave,

I know it must be one of these,

coming forth as a character witness,

to enter a black hole

in an a abyss of fallen tears,

who do I see has crept so easily by me,

always hitting the walls like the pavement,

near missile misses and camouflage,

the safe turns the papers fly from the purse,

in accordance with the piano playing the concerto

Inka Jink, Inka Jink

I suppose we'll have to pay for even the near misses

by a devil or a god

and the fate of those whose name is but an anomaly.