I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Do not play along When the madman insists that His toy crown is real
By D. J. Reddall11 months ago in Poets
All sorts of things die Only one kind of mind does As far as it knows Everything that begins to live has begun to die We should not be so worried about what follows death
Your small, silken ears savor spring’s strong song Unfurled on the mast of a barked synapse Of miniature ships in a still throng
Reality show: Scientists and poets fall In love over drinks
To secure our love You must be pretty and good At being others
Everything would have Coalesced perfectly in That single, lost hour
No thoughts without words Such an avalanche of words Without one, clear thought
Let's talk about the cost of cheap theatrics Of being taken in by a superficially charming, sham serious charlatan Someone who never stops playing the person
Where are they going, those gaunt, gallant ships? Wherever you wish them to go, my friend! Surely some madness tumbles from your lips:
To locate the edge Hurry to where the map ends Smell territory
An alien eye That pays careful attention To our stark nonsense
Arguing with fools Makes us crave the cool, dark earth We do it all day
