twister nonsense

the monster mutters and squints as
it prepares to land the cloud
it pilots on a strip clearly fertile
and where a rich green is
represented thickly; daisies
dance to airborne melodies
a southern climate cultivates
and in front of a nickel mirror
a playwright cricket preens
while warming for the night
and the monster in the cloud says,
“hey what happened to my dialogue?”

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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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