Reality is the Irregularity of the Past.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

A Tell From The Floor

There is no more the day myself has felt
Any less trodden, than by but one foot,
Or the other, that upon visage, treads myself—
Having ne’er footed; just stepping afoot.

In discourse with many a speechless sole
(And on this plank they do so surely know),
As the Jester, King and Serf share a soul;
Myself mottled by weighted rugs and Sew’.

However, not uncommon, but undesirable;
Me, the shelf, henceforth that life should sit,
And growing infinitely measurable,
But in the courtship which I may never fit;

A chipper note does clip, trip, and stomp,
And made gaudy by orchestras of brooms,
Spiff-swiff-sweep, occasional drops-and-tromps,
Wherein, a fresh mop sops the wear o’ doom.

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