Too Much
You think too much.
Brain stains are left on your skin,
it is now mottled with thought.
From moment to moment
your mind is a tumbleweed,
then a blundering tank
rolling over boxes of kittens.
Silence is your kryptonite.
Your house is a jumble
of intellectual clutter,
open books flutter weakly
piled high on chairs and table.
Some admire your erudite astuteness,
but you wife considers you mad,
as she, in her own quite place,
meditates upon emptiness.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2023
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