the po~et 23 (from his cave)

The paper lies drunk saturated with his fermentation. Having waited to be quenched--to taste his foliage. Odd phrases morphed together in a conundrum of expressions. They seep out from his vineyard. His mind has found some cave like cellar. It permits his request and invites him in. A chaser of stories, inside he finds the lives of those who once crawled inside. Their passage, a relief pattern, adorn the walls.

He stands at the mouth of the cave. He recites their tales. Tales of unknown men , common men, white men, insane men, intellectual men, simple men.

To her his echo is vintage. To her he tells these puzzles hoping she'll discern their color.