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“Does it make the contrived medicine,
any easier on the gander or the swallow,
when it’s from a ‘scaped Nanny goat’s,
ground skin, flesh, bones and marrow?
The bitter bleating maa’ing pills will turn you into the very same tomorrow.
While the birds will peck, honk, hiss and
cheap-en it from the heron to the sparrow.”

“Are comets simply shots fired by luminaries during interplanetary warfare from galactic bows and arrows?”

“Does the rain wet the appetite of Godly stars that wait patiently in the shadows?”

“A scope turned hanging rope is the Milky Way fallen from a spacious wheelbarrow.”

“The horizon’s panoramic vista to a universal puppeteer is still awfully narrow.”

When you set out to deeply ponder,
on the ever-expanding nature of all things,
you become an avid first responder,
to the ubiquitous pulling of the strings,
the camouflaged veneer of over yonder,
and the unsurprising pain as it stings,
the moulting and shed skins of anacondas,
the outstretched spreading of eagled wings,
you care not for worldly riches squandered,
instead you enrich your soul in everything,
you say a prayer fervent, full and sombre,
for those living on ever-thinning strings,
the trapeze actors you’ll love ever-fonder,
for the beauty in the hanging-on of their cling,
and the daily tightrope they dare to wander,
in order to trample, to revolt, to be uprising,
to be a Rapparee of the highest honour,
against deluded grandeurs of any king.

© poormansdreams

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