Poems are balls

A poem captioning the essence of human existence

The rush, the exhilaration. Yodelling.

What inspires such beauty? Divine providence?

No. Yet, maybe yes. No. A cry for help. Make your mind up, the queue’s getting longer.

My dreams are a fragile, untarnished, oval, shiny egg shell, their substance the yoke.

David Cameron’s head is also this.

If only the bagpipes were not so threatening, daunting. Tartan. Their sound so pure. Shite.

Leaves shake, winds sneer. But why is she not wearing a coat the silly girl?

Perhaps it is a barrier removed, as though boarding a train without a ticket. £20 penalty, sir.

If only Jesus walked among us? I saw him once, in a dream, well, in Dreams. He needed a bed.

The tuna went off yesterday. Who decided man should persecute the oceans? Injustice. John West.

But are we not all fluid, built into life’s crescendo like the waves of our lord? God doesn’t surf.

Nor does he sunbathe, so why do we buy factor 50? Crucial. Unwavering. We are getting close.

No. We’re not. Perpetual? We should have turned left earlier.

Perhaps we should consider man’s direction. Together. Apart. Is the path determined for us?

It depends if it’s signposted. Or in Latin.

I can see trees. There must be a crisp, fresh metaphor? Yet, no. They still have roots and branches.

As do people. No wonder thespians only play oaks and willows, in the eyes of sceptics. And spiders.

It becomes a blur, emotions become spoons, and spoons become dirty. Dishwasher gets used.

It breaks. Shatters. Must we live life in the ears of mechanics? Could be worse. No wheelchair access.

In the lobby,

Of our Lord.


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