condensed into a paste
smothered onto buttered toast
giving life a taste
The gargoyle frowned with his permanent face
and scuffed at the birds perched on his carapace
Even more he despised the humans below
causing a ruckus and a clamorous row.
You are a mystery to me,
God my lover,
the poet with velvet hands
and a heart like a war-drum.
I found a little poem
crying on the floor
whose dark-chocolate eyes were filled with tears
whose center was cleanly torn
The pencil just sat there.
Not being chewed, or sharpened.
Not on the verge of a great novel.
Beaten ‘round its river home,
the icy current on its bone.
Resting shade of passing icthus,
does nothing for its deepest wishes.
From the time I was a child
filled with curiosity and awe
I followed your rotation closely with my eyes.
Your magic must be hidden inside your metal box.
At some point,
Siddhartha ate pork,
Though he thought it was rice
Because it was.