I sat on the width of a tree,
read pages of poetic letters
in a quest for an acquisition spree.
On several burning notes, we agree.
Poetry is a pear tree, pick rhymes for free.
Our clothed nakedness we lucidly see:
The nakedness of nothingness,
The nothingness of existence,
our persisting existence.
I chewed one-tenth of sane tenses
interpreting the essence of joyless sentences,
I bit the fruit of ethereal depth on the poet-tree.
I marked oxymoron on my speech tree,
antithesis, I chew for a gift.
My pulse less understood by morons,
the voice of sarcasm became clarion.
The axe of pain is oxy,
The hook of forgiveness is moron.
I sat on the trunk of pun,
It lubes my buttocks with fun.
I swung and caught the branch of paradox,
on the poet-tree; wisdom and I had tea,
knowledge obliged me,
understanding took me fishing.
I sketched the mural of these three literary life guards on a baobab tree,
I scribbled the ode of these three on a poet tree.