the poet has a habit of lying to himself and fantasies get stuck in trees

like kites that have met their untimely demise

the world is a magical mystery and needs no embellishment, but try telling that to a poet

draping the world in velvet or burlap as the mood directs

only to find comfort in the genuine roughness of the burlap and silky deception in the slippery velvet

the world has a way of making the rough things soft and the soft things rough and the contrast makes the world interesting

i can conjure all sorts of images that i assume will remedy my temporary boredom, forgetting that i know little of what i need, seek or want

which leads to a poet lying to himself in hopes of supplanting illusion for reality

the twists are the result of entertaining all sorts of notions, which is a source of creativity

the gift of growing older………. now i know the poet lies and i filter his foolishness through the strainer of truth and it keeps me out of trouble but not out of ideas