I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Do not be alarmed: I am strange, I know Ab ovo, I ached to be like the others To swim with the collective, normal flow
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Poets
Three hundred stories Read by strange eyes that slowly Become familiar
The subtle glory of a turn taken Must be recognized and celebrated; The smallest spin can make cells awaken Minute machines, thus recalibrated
Life feeds upon death This truth is hard to swallow But many truths are
Ask how her heart feels Watch her google the question Bored, she reads aloud
Tedious inconvenience lingers After death, which is the best evidence I can find that long, sadistic fingers Guided by exquisite intelligence
Circling the drain May be grim, but it can be Done with style and grace
Never hesitate To delight in defying Obnoxious critics
How warm and reassuring waiting is Delay, deliberation, second thought Supply a shield against that dreadful quiz When the pressure to act cannot be fought
So many lenses! Whatever it is, the truth Is never altered
Imaginary islands are places Filled with salty peace, cradled by water The sun kisses their denizens’ faces Each one wisdom’s son, or joy’s sweet daughter
What is reading, exactly? What are you getting so excited about? Isn’t it just a matter of decoding what is encoded? Be reasonable, won’t you?
