little cold, yet more wet,
the grass grows green,
the wet gets wetter and old,
can be mistaken for mould,
            that colour of green,
plants flourish,
self-nourish,
instead of self-medicate,
choose to,
meditate on written Word,
not the sounds of voices heard,
in those darkest corners,
of my grey matter,
on each compass point,
wherein stands a court jester,
and I pale against the green,
and I pale against the dark clouds,
and my failed umbrellas number in
                        the hundreds.

Yet the grass grows green on both
sides
of the rusting metal fences,
external signs that I am losing
my mind,
as each jester
takes a turn
for the worse giving
substance, and abuse
through the cut downs,
that the court
jesters use to, mock my sanity,
mock my vanity, mock my
words with my own voice,
and
the grass grows green and
the winds of change rush
and move the grass,
and draw the toxic sounds
out
.......and
away,
a safe distance I pray,
where the
acid can
do no
harm,
to the grass growing green.
Leaving me at peace and serene.
While the grass grows green.