Before the threat <br />And dismal cold gray <br />of mourning <br />Came the sun. <br /> <br />And Charlie Comiskey <br />should've turned in his sleep <br />should've turned in his sleep <br />shoud've turned… <br /> <br />Insane Sun <br />Floating above the earth <br />Like some extravagant madman <br />Spending next year's allowance. <br /> <br />The same burning sun <br />In the same afternoons <br />In all the cities <br />East <br />and somewhat <br />West <br />of the <br />Great Mississippi. <br /> <br />should've turned in his sleep <br /> <br />Too many <br />Suns <br />In too many <br />Cities <br />Too many faces <br />Faces <br />in the face of it <br />All. <br /> <br />How much grief? <br />Too <br />Much <br />Grief. <br />Too many faces <br />Too many suns <br />Far too many of too many things <br />Far too many of too many things. <br /> <br />should've turned in his sleep <br /> <br />More like Dali, <br />less Victoria. <br />The playing field becomes a landscape <br />Fixed and isolated and trapped <br />Between the borders of its own fabrication. <br /> <br />The stadium faces <br />Blur <br />in the afternoon sun. <br />The celebration <br />Ends <br />in the afternoon sun <br />The victory becomes <br />Defeat <br />in the afternoon sun. <br /> <br />Morality <br />Victoria Escaped <br />Insane sun. <br /> <br />How many of how many things. <br /> <br />The death of honor <br />The end of a fading <br />And final trust. <br /> <br />should've turned in his sleep <br /> <br />And as <br />The unsettling dust <br />Settles in the throat of all men <br />There are not enough beers <br />In all the bars <br />In all the world <br />To flush out the stale bitterness <br />Of too many afternoons <br />In too many suns. <br /> <br />And Charlie Comiskey <br />woke up <br />and deposited the nightmare <br />in the pillow of his dream.<br /><br />Anonymous Americas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/1919/
