Chasing Crazies

Onslaughts of treacherous rains on fords
Enter into orifices of insidious grey plumes.
Errs of swelling gutters spilling over edges,
Erroneous gushes of sawdering hushes
Emitting from meticulously gathered pools
Upon roofs under iterated statuaries;
Yanked out weeds from garden beds.

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Pointed Spears

What were the chances.
I thought them high;
High enough to
Search through monuments
Without a map to guide,
Building babbling towers
Towards the heavens,
Wading in waterfall fountains
Of penniless coin tosses

Or was that chance
Worth all this.

But doubt,
Friend or foe,
I can’t seem to tell.

But love
We know.

Wavering heart entrances,
Shields in steadfast motion;
Barricades of rhythmic paces;
Steadily we march,
After bypassing defenses
Overtly dressed
In bare nakedness
In lines of verses
With spears pointed
At those with chances.