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.