A Liminal Evening
¶ 1
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A spring evening,
bats flit the warm twilight.
Enjoying the swarm,
feeding on the excitement,
chants echo under the floodlights.
¶ 2
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A ravenous crowd, and
the biggest gathering ever.
Roosted to the rafters, some
hanging off the trees,
been there, queued up for hours.
¶ 3
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Bats back in my essay!
I should be there, not you.
Stadium bound, and
feasting on the spectacle,
instead, I’m writing tepid, about you.
¶ 4
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Phylum, class, and order,
your Yinps, and your Yangs.
Mammals who fly
with the wisdom of birds,
found in warm, across every land.
¶ 5
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I could paint you positive,
or associate you with the dark.
Protector from disease,
or mythic purveyor
of a well-known deathly trademark.
¶ 6
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Here’s a deal, if the football goes my way,
I’ll write you up as symbols
of rebirth, luck, and long life,
not unhappy birds,
who prayed to be like mankind.
¶ 7
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Until then, I write liminal,
sitting on the fence.
Darkness, light, doom
and hope equally reign,
unless we win the game.
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