I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Appropriateness Ought never to muzzle truth Lest nice lies prevail
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Poets
Imagine being a sorceress’ son Strange, unsightly, full of frantic passion; Fonder of the soft moon than the harsh sun
The farce carries on For a few make fat profits From its absurd plot
Once you have broken The chains of your servitude Free the rest of us
Do not be alarmed: I am strange, I know Ab ovo, I ached to be like the others To swim with the collective, normal flow
Three hundred stories Read by strange eyes that slowly Become familiar
The subtle glory of a turn taken Must be recognized and celebrated; The smallest spin can make cells awaken Minute machines, thus recalibrated
Life feeds upon death This truth is hard to swallow But many truths are
Ask how her heart feels Watch her google the question Bored, she reads aloud
Tedious inconvenience lingers After death, which is the best evidence I can find that long, sadistic fingers Guided by exquisite intelligence
Circling the drain May be grim, but it can be Done with style and grace
Never hesitate To delight in defying Obnoxious critics
