The Workshop Poem by Dennis Lange

Inside my house of intellect,
In halls of common sense,
Are tools of rational thinking
For palaces or tents.

There are rows laid out in order;
The shelves arranged and neat,
Like precision drilled in soldiers
Who march with measured beat.

The nuts and bolts of sanity,
The screws and clamps of wit,
Are packed in pails as plentiful
As ocean beaches' grit.

The chains and wires of deeper thought
Are looped and coiled and hung
In cerebral convolutions,
Of which the wise have sung.

The hammer drives the sharpness deep.
The chisel chips at bones
Of foolishness and density -
Like sculptors shaping stones.

But in a flash, the workship of
My analytic mind
Was burned by raging fires of love -
Just ashes left behind.