how to confound a maxim

the paths to a tucked away
paradise’s picnic tables
and bathers’ blankets tend to exist
in an understandable state of moisture

– pilgrim prints do more than hint that trips
taken all the way to the shrine come around
only now and then so sandals that tramp
insanity and insanely swarm

as a stormy flock; for how few
must toil on earth whose haddocks are so
dull, so worn, and were not born with those crucial
components fit for the clouds and for the clouds

exclusively, thus their earthen toils, haddocks
worn dull, rightly stunned into the stationary
stupor they’ve had long coming as to how
an agent operating solo

could possibly be happy to visit the same
framed, cotton-faced paradise these many
times, blurring soupy paths that exist
in this understandable state of moisture


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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