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