I Write Poems
Feathered Freak

swaying in
the broken spring breeze
all most loosing my perch
above the the swill and swine
of quality hill park


the mental termites feed
on the foundations
of my reason and my calm
the insect approaches
with his hard nail footstep
and quietly as all most
to remain unheard
speaks a riddle to the air

what is in my head
what is the sound of silence
what is the thunder of thought


begone you feathered freak


i hop on my steel steed
and make swift tracks
southeast
all ways southeast

warmer weather
and no quality hill park
(the hill is not very good....so they
called it that in a attempt to cover their
inadequacies)