American Queen

Frivolous words meander from my tongue, aimlessly wandering like a lost child,

a helpless nomad, searching, unearthing, dull eyed seekers that roam the dark streets

of a self-constructed, invisible city. Strolling amidst stray felines that rummage through

overturned trash receptacles and roam back alleys, living off of disregarded scraps

deemed unworthy to touch the blood red lips of the middle-aged Madonna that lives alone 

in a pent house suite that overlooks the ever expanding metropolis. Smoke billows 

from the skinny stacks that stand in the distance, as wool-eyed children form elaborate images

within their heads, briefly entertained by man’s imitation of the cloud. She stands in the 

dining room, table dressed with crystal flutes of chardonnay, a chandelier hanging overhead, its tears

of glass dancing in the cool wind that enters through the window, out which she stares. 

Queen of the bustling boulevards, of cars that chase the tarred pavement, of robotic souls

that line the littered walkways, weakness exhibited in the steel crown that lies atop her head. 

And, sitting upon a throne, her glowing empire unfolds before glistening eyes. 

Reviews

[Alice]

beautiful.