Hmmmmmm
I’d hoped to interject a sec
to mention a thing or ten
about the way I varnish a deck
or wrangle a red-breasted wren...
but something’s securely suspect.
I figured I’d be all, “Yo, what’s up?” -
just walk right in and share a cup
of me with every one of you...
but something is surely suspect.
I thought I’d squawk, “Excuse me please,”
while thoughts still swim to pluck
which bother me to bother bees,
to bother fleas and ducks,
but something is soundly suspect.
I planned on lying down to write
of vagabond-gypsy adventures tonight,
and I was extremely excited to tell
a tale about my tricking Hell,
by bringing a bit of hope to compel
the damned inside to rise to rebel,
but something’s holistically suspect.
I hear the clicking of your keys
and smell your baking thoughts.
You’re nebulous - you interweave
until your prey is caught
and that is assuredly suspect.
Suspicion itself is suspect to me -
so is poetry -
no nests in trees -
seas -
...and peas.
(Oh, and energy).
(Should I have said 'energies’?)
So, sometime later I’ll tell you how
I planned to trick that Devil, now
I’ll toss you this hint; you know that sign
that Dante penned in epic line,
“All ye who enter abandon all hope”
the depths of which no mortal could cope?
Well, I was going to have my guy
sneak hope inside his heart, then try
to give it life its own, but why
when all of Creation is suspect!?
Maybe I’d trip your trigger with thoughts
of stitching souls to apricots
if things weren’t so triumphantly suspect -
like ivory -
like you and me -
Eternity.
So, I’ll just cut this off right here;
come back again another year
to see if I’m in writing gear
when nothing remaining is suspect;
‘cuz all of this bogus is suspect!
