Visitor

                                  "Visitor"



I am expecting zombies from distant planets.

Listening to a tune while sitting on a full moon.

In a late night's dream reality not to be what it may seem.

Teen scenes yell and scream.

A scream has no reason or rhyme.

Neither does the convoluted time.

It's all walking and talking mime.

Not worth its weight in a mercury dime.

Maybe worth a silver twenty and that's plenty.

Not as many as a golden double eagle.

But as she cries the seagull flies passing overhead.

It makes its sounds to the dead.

To a deadbeat poet.

Who will never show it.

In San Francisco's bohemian poem.



By Jonathan Billet -06.15.14.