Gord

2020-02-13 04:33 am

Who was I to write down?
Key turns loud, however,
The key turns around.
Free me of my bounds,
I can free you of yours,
My art, part astounding,
Mostly aster pounding,
Hoping for brighter pink.

Who am I to press down?
Pestle grinds slow,
A Mind grinds slower,
Eventual beach polluted,
The key turns around, 
It says:
"Free me of these clownfish,
acting clownish and catfish.
Art is only partly a mish,
Mostly is unequalled feeling."
His art, part niche,
Part for seating,
Parts for kings, rich,
Parts for heathens.
Parts to reason other parts,
Written partly to see them.