Parades of tears march in silent step on a lonely street while
White masked vendors hawk their wares as aging virgins sleep.
Paper dolls and strawberry dreams, float lazily in the crimson sky.

One, two…one, two, sounds the snare and the parade turns the corner
Of vanity and fair. Ching Ching go the chimes as mute poets turn rhyme.
Onward goes this charade, striking hands in a singular race against time.
Knowing all, yet not seeing. Always running, forever fleeing. March on
Little ones, for all too soon comes the setting of your sun. One, two….
One, two…one………...

J. Alen Wilson 2003