Looking back,
across the leaves that, strewn about,
create an amazing tapestry of words
from inside,
eruptions of rhyme and nonsense plastered
like wallpaper over some digital
town square, and I think,
I muse even,
for it is a certain kind
of whimsical thoughtfulness with which
I perturb myself,
that many more recent additions to
the pome structure
feel a mite short, perhaps they
are lacking a solid ending,
or the thoughts have not fully birthed,
but then,
the constipation of creativity and
emotion is acceptable during the currency
of my state of being,
that my own demons (who rattle my cage daily
with aplomb and pointed fury)
are watching my output, censoring
me so that they may gain
extra time to lay beside me,
not prepared to be cast out into
the world and dealt with as the vagabonds
they so clearly are.