A chandelier instead of a mailbox

Like a  jeweled crown,

An apex unplugged,

It sits atop the cedar post,

Brighter than any birds nest.

(Minus the eggs,too.)

This brass arachnid

Feeding on the aluminum coffin,

Or incubating it’s contents.

…Keeping correspondence warm.

It’s forked tongue long ago pried away from the waning electrical sockets of

A now far away house.

And left to hang,

Left to blow in the breeze,

And to knock on wood when a hurricane blows,

& wonder about past energies.

Past loves.

Instead, left to power nothing.

Where the mail is received,

And the red flag waves, celebrating both victory and outgoing mail.

This chandelier takes it’s place,

Changes it’s course.

Majesty replacing monotony,

If only to accept letters and various other visas.

Which will provide neither

Nutrition or attrition for the mailbox.

Although currently in control,

The chandelier wilts like a flower at noon.

When the moon takes it place in the sky.

Melting into a beautiful puddle,

A indomitable mixture of alloys and pylons,

Forcing nearby  pythons to flee to the Pantheon.

Wishing   now more than ever it could attract fireflies,

To fight back against the

Moon & stars.

To  somehow regain it’s fervor and blast off into space,

With the strength of comets,

On the wings of condors.

To force the universe to cover its collective mouth,

But

Instead, in recession

Tiny bands of tungsten barely visible to any eye,

(Naked or otherwise)

Playing tunes not yet meant to be heard.

Igniting fires not yet meant to be seen.

Like an old action movie,

It could be speculated the chandelier was shot from it’s roost,

That  hung opulently above a spiral staircase

By  some debonair hero,

During  some chaotic hour,

While clocks chimed and swing music blared in the background.

Only to be perfectly timed,

To ultimately  crash on top of the head of some belligerent intruder.

&

 Spare some unfortunate maiden

A trip to the train-tracks.

Or dropped from a massive  tree that sprouted chandeliers ,

This

Fantastic

Mutation

The  product of a bean planted within the confines of a power-plant.

Only to have them collected by some giant with penchant for trinkets,

…And golden geese.

And hung, by that same giant

 So the stars would come to be.

All this,

All these movie script manifestations,

Plot

h                                            oles

And

 Apparent charisma.

Are the equivalent to  love-seats, in well lit offices.

 They are  just silver diversions,

Aquariums next to sign-in sheets.

Silver stories about a brass light fixture, affixed to the top of a mail-box.

Mixed up on the tables with so many other magazines.

But cast to a bigger screen,

Like that first stone is,

Once in awhile.

&

Watched by so many  roaring crowds

Who possess great hearts,

But still struggle to find their footing in the dark,

As well

As the cup holders on their armrests.

As well

As the swords at their sides.

Eventually the

 The chandelier will find its way

Down.

Gently, of course.

Placing it’s brass arms

Behind it’s brass head,

And stretching it’s brass legs.

Towards the brass horizon.

Now sitting atop the  quiet earth,

By a quiet body of water,

Under a quiet sky.

Blowing quiet smoke rings.

No longer collecting mail.

No longer considered art.

But still a topic of conversation, on a much lighter scale.

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