Poet Meshugeh

Hear the noise
The children playing
The honk the screeching
Birds chirping, laughter
Poet sits in wasted room
With sea of paper looming tall
Ink splats soaking
The sunlight moving on
Poet sulks moodily
Draining his thoughts with pen
Wind thru open window sweeps
The sea becomes a fury
Circling the poet viciously
Cunning quick cutting deep
Poet sits
In ruin waste

Folly

Wings alight with silver trails
Oh what heights they do prevail
Souring upon the sky
Oh what foolish creatures
Are they
For their heads are but glass
Their wings of paper
Do they think themselves,
Angels of heavens grace?