Spiders with seven hands
Tripods with four stands
Condescending, kind old folks
Crack mirthful, often sleazy jokes.
Ladders without rungs
Toads with gills but missing lungs
If all I see is all but right
Will rain be hail and evening, night?
I turn around, shake my head
They walk past me, the silent dead
The birds all walk and the mice all fly
Something's happening, ironic and wry.
I'm on my turf, I'm in my mind
I've left all memories far behind
The stark, ill spleen that circumvents
Slowly, steadily, surreptitiously relents.
I come across a river dry
Only to watch boats sailing by
I come across the starry sky
Wishing the mighty sun goodbye.
Anarchy so tranquil that one stirs
A cat that roars, a lion that purrs
A rocket in the sky, but coming down
A smile that's actually a fervent frown.
A postman that fails to deliver
One wants chunks, but gets a sliver
If what we think is not what is
What if life's a game, a quiz?
I sat on a chair, but fell to the ground
I screamed so loud, there was no sound
I looked up, with gleaming eyes
What I beheld was no surprise-
No sky so vast, no birds that soar
But fallen tear drops on the floor.