A Tale of Indiana
by Michael Doyle

In the crack of life
Rests the obsession
Of all who know strife
And all of its oppression.

The cracks are loud,
In a way, somehow allowed.
It tells a story of death
That remains until our last breath.

A mouthful of dirt,
In this world full of hurt,
It requires a sense of brilliance
To get past the need for resilience.

A twisting tongue tells the story,
And a sequel is coming full of glory.
The horror of it is a lot more to say,
The bride, it seems, is on her way.

Chicago is the kind of place,
Full of loneliness and lost without grace.
Quilting multi-parts at the breakfast table,
It's a common feat of which we're all capable.

A willful darkness dances to recall
That a ballet of shadows informs us all.
There's an edge to the wicked fascination.
If given enough rope, we'll hang a celebration.

It's a sorrow that plays on violins,
Each note twists from the heat of violence.
We might refuse the end of our day,
But even the Devil knows how to pray.

Unable to breathe, as if buried alive,
We cannot remember the moment we arrived.
Every struggle given resists tyranny.
Prometheus delivered fire as liberty.

(c) July 10, 2026   Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved