CROSSROADS

I am the spirit incarnate
who sleeps under an umbrella
painted with stars.
A jewel drained of liberty's christening
incased in an incurable
setting
sold at auction
by a demented coin wizard.
Appalling
is the laughter
heard in the sleeves
of my induced
incantations
where tomorrow
becomes a promise
spoken by a forked tongue
cadaver
seen after dark
serving pop and gargoyles
at a convenience store.