the accordion was named, Jericho...

photo by Seth M © via Flickr

the accordion was named, Jericho

we carried black sack cloth bags 
filled with every sound 
of joy we could remember 
every feeling that could 
turn us back into children...

but whereas we used to be able 
to lure passage with our calibrations 
of surrendering to happy memories, 
the wards here gained wisdom 
to our ways and blocked us from entering...

we needn't have these tones 
as much as enough brute force 
to obliterate the doors 
whose locks we could no longer pick 
for our gold vistas...

the angels here 
are righteously damned 
musical algorithms and 
voracious mind readers...

they can detect our, coming 
to take them away, routines 
so instead we bake bread and 
paint them with crushed flowers and honey 
and peddle them outside the gates 
hoping to slip past all seeing eyes 
of a secure future in order to know 
today still has no price upon its head...

and here we hear 
the humming 
an electrical choir 
beneath us... 

"run rabbit run 
the fun is 
in knowing 
you can feel 
yourself being fed 
into what stills you..."


EJR ©