Bard's Folley
Rendering solitude, making use of old fat
The poet's mind can find itself against the blade
Squeezing the beauty of this world
Building a plastic place within which to stand
Placing dead butterflies in a sterile display case
Coveting the flowers on which the living choose to suckle
Cold and distant as an iceberg to a glass of iced tea
Nothing less than idealized perfection can fracture
The flaws of chance seem as shards of broken glass
Though the purveyor of lavished linguistics
There is no reflection in the mirror
So he is left searching for sirens in the fog
Taking for granted the sun's warmth which he has found with ease
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