ever so slippery

Dense and ignorant am I. Stare dumbly
at shadows in darkness and stumble
through woods fog has for ages
called home. Thought for a moment
distinctions at last blossomed lucid.
Had to do with movement. Art moves
and decoration doesn’t in an inherent
way; moves or adorns the participant.
Agreement is reached, between the two.

Shower curtain zigzags in sea greens
and dusk’s sleepy blues boast digitized
colors for sure but do not pester
me about what they mean or why I meander
and stumble in a manner some
may call disturbed. But just now,
with tobacco and coffee, twenty
to thirty cars have hummed up the street
and do not make me wonder who they are.

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About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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