By Damian Robin
In view, he made a start.
Filling up his cart,
He flogged his horse apart
And made a mess-age: “art.”
With few horse hairs of doubt
He fanned his ego out,
Used skills of nearly “nowt,”
Stored bugs in sauerkraut.
He keeps his heart in kind
And only shows the rind:
Dead life redesigned,
In emp’ror’s clothes, new lined.
He’s made his unknown known.
Some say, in deed, he’s grown.
This is part one of the short series “Three Human Types”
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Kimberly, a thoughtful and clever poem. I enjoy your vivid imagery and esteem for the melancholic temperament. Well done.
Perfect comment, C.B.
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