Garden of Roses
06/08 2021
During all of this mild-mannered weather,
As I lean against the garden of roses
Along comes this torrent of feathers
That tickles against my throat
That makes me laugh, until I get sore
At whatever I was originally waiting for.
Particularly what I now forgot,
A face, of that much I am certain.
I too see his front door ---
Massive green painted oak;
And the fingers that dance along the irony
Of my existence.
At least it was accompanied by the tones of his voice.
First I attempted to bypass it
By appealing to the notion of a dream ---
Then I turned toward the bottle.
After that Walt Whitman, Ginsberg & Kerouac
They too lost the battle, you see they couldn't cross
The river of Styx without a single feather
So, I turned toward the marble creature
That lingers in my hallway ---
Who screeched whenever I slept peacefully content
And who wanders across the endless seas.
He was unsure of what to answer to my question
So he gave up by appealing to Mr.Freud & his mother
Leaving me all covered in these feathers.
But don't fret.
The sun shines on my face as I lean against the garden of roses.
The light bounces against the ripples on the water.