Poetry By Raymond Palma

‘A Ray of Hope’

The Thirty-First

Walk with a CRUNCH!
The CRUNCH flies every time you step.
So many colors, what do you mean they’re dead?
How can this be when they’ve formed a body?

The head looks familiar.
The brain is hollow, yet it glows with rage!
Orange, orange, a discriminating fellow.
Strangers approach every hour.
A circus is in town.
Animals don’t look like themselves.
Why do they chant the cliche?

Their stomachs will all be filled.
They’ll all go away.
CRUNCH, CRUNCH!

Raymond Palma