Wandering aimless in the woods to the north,
I stumbled upon the floating forlorn fairies.
Squishing their leader with an accidental stomp,
I apologize to the remaining few who laugh with joy.
Bewildered by their bashing buffoonery so bold,
I inquire to their sanity and substance and soul.
Rearranging the corpse with a twig from the forest floor
they shout in unison with fingers pointed, “there is his soul!”
And as I vomit the violence away I see the substance
of their mockings floating to the heavens above,
snickering gouls giggling at my expense as their
once grand leader ascends to nowhere in particular.
Bobo the dancing clown
took a quick trip into town.
Wearing his hospital gown,
none would dare look down.
As the king without a crown,
both faces stared with a frown.
Hear the calm swaying of bare oaks in the distance,
the soft dusting of snowflakes brushing the ground
with the slow breeze guiding them from the north.
See the sunrise shining on the long path to the east
as the young fawn scuttles through the padded grass,
beyond and above the lone bird sings the loud song.
Non-stop talking repeating the same thing
over and over and over again as the feeble
mind sits like a well-behaved child in front
of the inner tube of sadness that floats upon
the inescapable pool of manufactured misery
where the waste will always float on the top.
Elevator doors creep open,
bright white lights shining
to the tune of Mozart’s Third.
Turn left through the double
doors that block my mystic
eye from behind the window.
Open made shut by elderly
hands wandering through the
hallway like brittle skeletons
searching for their second skin.
Grim shadows blessed in holy
mists follow their rattling bones
to the blanketed beds of dusk.