Ever the strange pictures beside the views,
The tremors of the past made mute in death,
An iconography of old disused,
Becomes bewildered to comedic dread,

Why so many wings, why?
Scales, winding robes for what?
What proverbs did apply,
Within these jovial eyes and solemn lips?

Your blatant words are kept,
Your characters find few,
But who can know the depths,
I find the veil of time is truly shrewd.

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.