Poetry
Sometimes the mood just hits.
My proverbial muse has a baseball bat.
Picture Barry Bonds in a toga.
That wasn’t the poem. This is:
When the buildings have all gone
And the birds have flown away
Silently,
And passed beyond the sun
Where is my taxi to heaven?
And if there’s no room,
Will I have to leave you behind?
When I have lost
The difference ‘tween hot and cold,
They serve me a flood in a bowl:
This is the limit of my dream
