poem

The garden that began my education,
the asphault path that took me by the wrist,
in days succumbed; in nights lie interlaced.
Our shelves are now inclined planes. Superstition
boils upon the airwaves as a swarm
of perfect famymaho watches fast
this mild marmoreal bard unspool his parsed
stutterings: escape is on the lam.
The garden is a pit of spammers. Yet
there will be looking back, sans albatross,
and cured of zeyg we neither curse nor bless
these orotund melees with bloodshed fraught.
I wait beside, disarmed, the park of asphault.