Birth

Location

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!

This show boat is for certain

in each and every person.

I carry burdens determined

by urban suburban

workmen and sermons,

like a skirmish of words pressed

firmly against my head.

I was meant to honor those dead,

yet I was led to dread

from promises of red:

though green had filled my bed,

and my mouth was good and fed.

(This is how we all were bred.)

Behind the inner walls,

I hide beneath the drawls

while the unspoken repeatedly calls;

it is masked to hide my squalls.

Afraid to stand for fear of fall,

so I lay until (who?) is called

to enlighten, without stall.

Even deeper is painted purple:

in the core, no way of verbal

pronunciation to create internal,

so it burns in this infernal, 

ready to release what is eternal.

But the shallow swallows the mirth,

waiting for a brighter birth.

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