Tickle-Me-Elmo’s Fire

The white-burning flame of a sulfurous halo can
illuminate a path through the plush red clouds, and if you
gaze long enough, its phosphorescent glow will tell
you of its guileless truths that stain the iris with visions of me
drifting flotsam and jetsam in an ocean of puppets, uncertain of how
I will ever return. But knowing still if I allow these strings to
guide me as a compass to where that I might go, then I will get
back to the asphalt shore that I had once called home, to
the years that I spent perched before the mast marked Sesame
and the onus of the eyes that cast a stigma on the street.

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