My Augury

I wear a firefighter’s cap without a uniform, and without a Dalmatian, Without a place in a firehouse I splash on make-up as a lady in a masquerade without foundation, without blush, Without a dancehall, gilded in white gold, I tout around with a heavy book, scratchy cotton and a cane, yelling theories, Without a mouth to speak it and no ears to hear it I pull the weak, lightly metaled trigger of a pistol, in the arid desert, no one but I alive, Without a sun beating down on, without a gun, and without a rush of danger In imagination’s desire and reprieve, A coolant to the wound of boredom, of sloth Of fear. Do I rely on the fears to bring hopes alive? Is it for the fear, the urge, the ravine, deep indeed, That I ache for a quick lever, A quick solution to the silence Why do I do anything at all? I dream like a spider without an Amygdala Without an idea of pain or horror and fear Like a queen or a soldier in the desert, in the gala, A warrior for myself and my sanity, all that is dear, In and out of focus, a desire, a goal, a dream, Is never without the dreamer, less the dreary, Who thought one day, “How does that star gleam?” And the next day, said to a sky less one star, “If only, my Augury?”