the truth about masterpieces
drifting beyond the lightest cloud
(pastel clowns in post mortem rain parade)
cascading in the cold moon dust
to shed this latest mascarade
wounded memories hang from the mind
(autumn berries quivering three quarters past prime)
when did "mediocre" pock the virgin tree,
when devils told us," painting by numbers
was just mindless barb and babble"
not a feathered masterpiece?
your very first epiphany,
an evening frost pon tender leaf
even that...nothing really unique...
they should have stated the slate cold truth
as soon as we could breathe.