He saw the error of his ways, a colossal
faux pas that left him broke and flat,
(but hardly fat) just a rather husky
guy with an eye for words, his absurd muse
would dream of any half-hatched scheme
to fill his verse, and desire to transfer
each expanded volume to shelf; to transfer
all bound tomes to a home of colossal
proportions. His thoughts held a static schem-
atic of his longings – his belongings, and fat-
tened coffers would always offer to amuse
long after they had turned rancid and musky.
Age had turned his eyes half blind and dusky,
riddled his rattled bones like a cancer,
the answer to which he could not choose.
Yet he stood straddling life and death, a Colossus
who could level Rhodes and the world flat
(if that was his verdant scheme.)
But he would lie awake and dream
in visions languid and lusty,
and heap faint flattery
in a rather obvious and obnoxious transfer
of sarcastic barbs. A slight of colossal
malfeasance, a pointed muse.
This was the route which he’d choose to amuse
himself. He couldn’t help but scheme
of new ways of throwing his poetic weight, his colossal
posterior, his inferior brand which was no longer trusted,
a man so disgusted of words and would transfer
all his angst against all odds to fall flat
and to find unrest on his laurels. So that was that.
He had made many mistakes, laced with verbal abuse
and chose to trade tirades, a torrid transfer
of distortions and schemes,
dreams of a self-effacing vision of one less husky
and dialed way back from colossal.
Yet his rented flat was colossal
and his muscled muse came across as husky.
He only wished he could transfer schemes for dreams.
(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2019