Sort of half-life after poetic death, the waking way
of riches squandered & nothing left to be debited
arthritic ascendency – was there adroitness known
with flair, you ponder whether the myth’s from a
willingness accepting any fantasy reasonable, or
better than sharing despicably blank pages where
pleasure owes less to inchoate word paucity as a
just beginning of demonstrable redundancy
Yet words do appear, maybe that’s a supernatural
explanation it’s magical and will do well here, thus
we don’t scrimp and save on a penny’s scent; this
is as good as it gets – a ‘believe it or not’ proverb
making as much written sense ever as all poetry
created whenever by whomever – everywhere
© 2 May 2013, I. D. Carswell
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