Poetry Taulph

When sleep becomes elusive as a fox

I chase the dreams that dwell in shallow graves

I find that death has claimed a wooden box

And hides beneath the stones that no one saves

My metaphors are mixed like fox and stones

And yet, there’s still a coffin in the ground

The music there is made of solemn tones

And sung by bloody birds without a sound

It’s poetry, so everything is right

As right as scraping horse shit off the street

When water turns to wine there’s more of it

Of poetry, not wine before we eat

All mimsy were the sounds that no one’s seen

It shows the way that mold is oddly green.

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