I had a thought
That spilled out once
On to rough, black paper;
It sploshed and blotched
In dim-bulb light
From a skip to a caper
It was a purple idea
A pretty hue of grape
Not to mention, it was fluid
And not so sticky as a tape
But even though it was watery
And the black parchment it stained
It stuck on sort of enduringly
The way mud does after it’s rained
I couldn’t make much of it
With its tinges of blue and red
I suppose one can’t make much of an idea
Once it’s spilled out of one’s head
Then came a time when the flurry
Of purple rivulets didn’t stop
And there was this purple puddle
That the black paper was used to mop
That was that of the puddle
Nothing much to say
That was that of the idea
That the black paper was used to wipe away
Sometimes I think the notions
About wordsmiths is just hype
All do they do is spill liquids
And then just swab and wipe
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2 comments:
Awesome! Love the images these words create.
-altoid
But life is about starry nights
Not the ordinary morn
And though the puddle is wiped
The idea lives on
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