The Waterfalls The Lions Roar Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Illusions in a fluted world practice
All kinds of mimicries, while the sad poetess
Weeps underneath her gravestone in a
Record heat wave:
She is neither here nor there, and her lover
Or her husband is swept to a sea of chalk.
The trees use to sing to her,
The churches use to light up blue cerulean,
And their was a voice in her heart
Even though it was a murdered voice- now
It listens to the raw traffic and the whale bone
Utterance of the sea saw- the red and yellow
Helicopters report of a sad nuisance
And then travel on in tandem as if a wire
Held them together,
And she is down there underneath the plastic
Flowers like a gold fish who once swam
In the sunlight who has fallen
To floor,
Like a penny without the wishes of the cheapest
Muse- and the airplanes sing deafening
Over the waterfalls the lions roar.