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.
Most though, were much like Dorianna. So busy racing around that they wouldn't know a rose if he handed them one. Or have time to smell it.
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At present my life is this. This stage you looketh upon.
This stage is all our lives.
And upon its hallowed boards, creaking as they may,
All will bear witness.
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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