I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
If the world you knew and loved is no more Pulverized by plague or war or famine You can slam denial’s obstinate door But it opens, as facts you examine
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Poets
As you contemplate the figure you made The making of your figure’s on parade The layers of creation cascade: Made, you are making, as your maker bade
Is reality Just what the complaints online Are truly about?
Imagining you is quite difficult Is this prosopagnosia’s onset? A face forgotten suffers an insult What did not coalesce, can we forget?
Plagues addict us to Communication at a Very safe distance
Each of these words was consciously chosen By my strange, natural stupidity By no algorithm were they frozen Amid the flow of possibility
There is a strange fish called an Anableps, twice It has two, distinct eyes in each eyeball Perplexing, you might think; not at all nice
Begin by walking, then run like a stag Tread water, then surge through the stream: salmon Flap, then find the wings of dragons a drag
We are invisible to each other A happier thing for you than for me I suspect; these words are from another For you alone, and everyone to see
All I have to offer is a poem This might strike you as pretentious folly As insipid nonsense, or just ho hum; In the best of worlds, you would be jolly
Given how coveted attention is In this mad, distracted, impatient world In which a like means much more than a kiss
There will come a time When you think you know what you Are doing; you don’t
