There is a dream of mine…
It sits behind the forsythia.
Hiding beneath a turtle’s brow.
Quibbling with my mad, it jumps with starts and dies with sudden stops.
What it is, paint on canvas or ink on paper, few know except the piper and all who listen tortuously to his crazy song.
Who dares answer the question?
Post-note: No. I have zero idea what any of that means. Sometimes, I’m just a conduit to the crackpot running my show.