Seranaea told me I should Write the skeleton of a poem And wrap a scarf around it’s neck And hang ornaments about it’s ribcage
If only I could do that I’d plant Hollyhocks around it’s feet And sprinkle glitter over all And fire up background music.
But I am store-brand verse and prose Arriving in a plain brown wrapper. I’d be a good reporter, so they say But what would that vocation do To the kaleidoscope that is my soul. ljm
At a loss for lyricism these days. Buried in pragmata.