one of these days, i’ll write about that place,
of my ancestors; that place of clouds canopy,
gilded, tasselled, canopy of jewelled nectars;
here they call them stars, nectars flow forth,
from the tips of radiance, spilling forth gods,
whose shape and form, gods only know of;
humans have yet to discover beauty of eternity
a life time sphere; eternity exists for the pleasure
of the one they refer to as good, pleasure he
spelled from the breath of his vast milky way;
not the way we read a poem, oh no not like that
how then? dont ask me that, i cannot tell; will Alice?
who Alice? she doesn't hesitate, when to eat or follow;
i’ll follow him then; who? whom? will you follow when?
enough! when is enough? tis not for pondering, this;
tis for sheer fantasy this, so read on;
if only i did continue on to write, and write,
and write those thoughts, of ancestors. there
is no colour in this po..e...m there is only sparkle.
Poems In April DAY SEVEN - The Tuesday Platform, a prompt-free poem, today anything goes....