We are the sons of immigrants,
Deceived by no one but ourselves.
We fashion answers from the shells
Of beaches paved with false serenity,
And hide our light in lanterns we
Compose of paper-thin simplicity.
While every sleeping starfish lies
On sandy bottoms sworn to darkness,
We put on clothes to match our mood
And dance with glad abandon.
Fear us and you'll find no home
To wander from in salutary revelry.
We are the night, and send it swimming
Over every conclave of restraint.
Our gait is subtle, smooth,
And birth-determined, signalling
Our victories to come. A glass sun,
Shattered by the one remaining
Moonbeam, guides our feathered flight
To worlds unspoken and unclaimed.
©2016 Michael Fraley
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