Once upon a time, I had slightly Bruised my fingerend in tying Unneedful knots too brutally. The knots were sonnets, gracefully Losing bout by bout in rhyming, Despite my careful scratching That annulled no spot of itching. I had not thought that writing Was so much like fighting Or two witches bitching So under-epidermally. I stayed at it relentlessly Tying tying tying Every Musing, Bruising Blossom stylistically. The daisy- Chain was for no one particularly (Or perhaps I am lying) You know how things get tangly When we practice firstly.... The lengthening String of words got too stringy And self-involved in singing That should have taken flight more singly By whistling Unconcernedly And not too self-consciously, The way A clumsy Kite, so sprightly Can climb all day By dodging More effortful breezes, never too longly Lodging, Never aloft too lingeringly Until the crisis of a knot too thoughtfully Unthoughtful cripples the so skyey Thingy Into a crooked tree.
Aug 282011