I'm truly glad you're strung along,
For all my wandering and song,
I'm tickled that you dare to stay,
For my artistic whim and varied play,
I find that when I open up,
My empty head into the cup,
Of wordy thoughts, it crashes out,
A poem on the talk of poems -
A poem found in mental drought.

Marbled sky,
And the muted clouds seem to scar the horizon,
They reach up and paint the sky in a tumult of blues,
And the open air is devoured by roaming teals.