Shall I rape nature for metaphor
with nothing of purpose within my grasp?
Such a myriad of elements await my call,
yet my mind idles, wandering…
The heart will play to such songs
fumbling, pierced before it is done
that brainless thing, misunderstood
confounded with sorrowed melancholy-
cannot sit still as I try to mend it-
yet always, yes, always with the next lyric
fool that it is…
So I'll sing nothing, nothing of value
just hum sweet whisperings, accent the day
to reflect more brightly the whitewashed walls
swashed with scenes of memories
with nature, rapping at the windowsill
flickering, fidgeting, to get in…
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