Folk Toys

Explosions erupt my eye’s illusions—

A reenactment faces false stupors;

Faring music distant, betwixt commotion,

Swooned by Calamity’s folk-y torpor;

Marooned from life’s screaming mortality;

The Sky reeled out-way, slightly, utter so;

Placed beyond Complexity’s eternal vitality,

In the Bull Roar and Straw-horn’s privy note;

Foreign roots defame the native tongues,

With scents from olden fires cooking,

Here stood Tradition’s Pillar ever long,

Retracing what Youth finds too forgetting;

Soon the days of old again pass and fade,

And leave within us all the Folk-toys of Age.