and it won’t
stop the poems
but will change them.
I am prehistoric thoughts.
I am a bard from wizards.
I am familiar of Plato-cave.
Yet you forget what you
Truly are: the very breath of God.
And so you blunder through this
Dream-speckled life like an
Orphaned child hungering for home.
Yes, I am your chosen; my gangling bones,
my sensuous lips, my frightened eyes.
You play in my sandbox, but serenely
store your vision of sugar plums.
We are all born mad, some remain so.
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When day is done, the sky
puts on her black dressing gown
and turns in for the night.
smooth as polished stone
marble bodies like three
for my –– sing! ––