Here are some poems, composed by a puppet,

some are my own and some of them not.

You can like one, or quite like them all,

or simply not like them a hell of a lot.


x



Thursday 17 May 2012

Illiterate in the Library

The top of the forest
stands tall and upright
above your head so
when you enter the light
is blocked by canopoly.

Way up there, each tree
has its own leaf, distinguishable
from the others like fingerprints.
If you knew how to look
you could tell them apart.

Held up by unmade paper
smeared by many
a miniture message
unseeable by you or anyone
bigger than a beetle.

Down at ground level,
tracks and signs of creatures
all around can be read,
yet to you mean nothing but
meaningless marks in the wild.

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