It was her likeness to opaque
she could not hear the stark differences between
Voice and God, Cid and William, her own and others.
She thought she was poetic, she was hazy.
There is no great mystery lying in the Milky Way, find another way
to mean something you say. It is people like she
that claim they think in poetry,
who are killing it-Literally-
making-non-sense and none said a thing,
they all oohed and awed at the silk flowers-
So I chimed in but did not say-
What do you want, a medal for lighting a fire?
Hell fire sparks easier for those who whip out wet matches,
need accelerants and whet whistles with Sulphur sounds,
What the-
What did she just say? Blowing smoke and sourced upwind.
Are you certain that is the right meta-
for your point is dull.
Perhaps hone in on the infinite edge of the rose petal…
Where? Love resides? Could you not find any other name?
It pokes me thorny to read such stretches of imagination that span
Short of any original creation, or enhancement to the existing therein.
Entanglement, she is inclined to throw loops and claim fancy stitch-work,
I am seeewww anapestic. Vast like space,
the space between her ears.
There is a fly in my primordial soup. Like Hamlet, I smell a rat that
binges on stolen cheese, farts and claims he has made new
poetry or silent but thoughtful prose.
She nibbles at my nerves and deserves to be told descriptive decadence
is not originality or insight. When blurry, when it makes no sense
of any related things, it does not ring pretty and honestly,
is pretty irksome. Obviously, this is not poetic but pathetic and
her-a-tic, the fuse has been lit.
Someone call her on her bull
Painting By L. Prang & Co. (publisher) (Flickr: Woman with Lily) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
