Sunday, 29 March 2015

The Gravity of Apples

She likes to think of tricky things
That twist and strain her brain like tree
A creaking ranch of branches stretch
Her quest of most improbably

Letters tumble in a mumbled mound
They seem a senseless pile of chatter
As though in waiting for a meaning full
Of single strings too dark to matter

Bursting dams of countless anagrams
Where in conclusion skylight clear
Sneezing visions of a pepper pot
In tomes of onomatopoeia

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