Maybe Morning is My Somberness

I am simply
A starlight candelabra remnant of a flicker of light
I hold no bounds for the bourgeoise way of living
For sundays Mondays.

Do you know a limerick is the Masonic
Creaks of the twitterly, twinkling
Peaks of frost on a mountain
Of ice cream dethawing in the wind?

The Lord is with us. Many
Ways he can strike down a bullet that attacks
The Lord is with us. He carries
The legless on his back.

Life is sonnets composed
Of decomposing ballads and balustrades
Of bouquets

If life could be a smile
This is my okay despite the not okays