DishonestBetween what lines must I read to find the meaning that you seed?
And what abstractions must I know to accept the words you sew?
How pitiful, that blank white page,
Sitting by an open cage,
And asking all without.
But in your words I do engage,
As far 's I can without dismay;
Must I fear a lingering pout?
Between what oceans have you run that you can tell me all is done?
And where have you bestowed a kiss without the ink and without miss?
For I do not see any words
Around, about, these other lords;
These sentences and rivers.
And I define in other words,
Not obscene, like all of yours;
The lines that shake and quiver.
Between what notions have you to hide an animal unseen from eye?
And who is hiding there among the sweeping cursive you have wrung?
For one should never stoop so low
As to smite the words we know,
Like children and their slang.
I have no marks, no lines to sew
That cannot be seen unless in row,
For I have already sang.
Un Rebord VertThe sun has a shadow and it is catching up with me.
Granted, I am not travelling fast.
Though in comparison to the rest of those in the shade, I am quick.
Still, I have miles to sleep before I run. I only stop to laugh, which is often, at bodies in the water
And children run over by colours.
The trees have a brilliance and it is arguing with me.
Truly, I have right of way.
Besides, I do have many more hues than they and I am not lazy.
Still, the trees think they are best, for they have quarterly cycles that awe the masses and whoa
The greatest poets of this world.
Life gives me language and it is serving well to me.
Writing, I can poetry prove.
Trees are simple, left behind. Flowers? Dusty, and I am clean.
So I will not fall over roots and bugs and life so green, or the winter's solstice-teeth, because I
Know more than Summer does.