Not sure what I’m doing with all these social media thingies, maybe I’m leaving a intricate trail of remnants for my future self, or other folk that might be interested in this strange person that existed/reveled in obscurity. Anywho, here’s a poem that I wrote while I was in Mexico.
Royalty
The lady had a hooked hand.
Sanguine silk spilled down her body
as if she had opened a vein.
Femme fatale through and though.
With her hook, or with a look
she has ripped through many a heart.
The man with a wooden chastity
died in a fire.
As a matter of irony
it was on his wedding eve.
And his bride with a hooked hand
never received the key.
The child was to despise in time
and in his time to be despised,
A mask of human skin.
Obra certainly, for his kinsman.
The daughter never known,
the only one truly worthy of the throne.
As she never craved it, but understood
the responsibility that came with it,
as she should. . .
Lucky upbringing,
Perhaps because she was brought up
with just enough uncertainty.
People made of glass,
Sparkling and fragile
to the last.
Treated like divinity,
As if they were more important
than you or she.
The glass princess,
Tempered and unseen.
Turtle Writes 
Wow, Joshua. There’s a hidden meaning here. Will you disclose it????
I mean there really isn’t anything hidden. Poetry is kind of like a mirror, as much as it is lens. The reader makes as much, if not more, meaning as does the writer. I will tell say that, I wrote this poem sitting in the courtyard of a church in San Miguel, as I watched two girls playing with a red ball. There was a dog in the lap of their caretaker who was dispassionately petting it at the time. She sat up very straight on the bench, and looked very bored even as her thumb swiped vigorously up her smartphone. When the girls were finished playing, the dog was suspended in air for half a second, when the woman stood up.