Broom sweep symphony,
The complexity of bristle brush strokes,
Bristle brush, thistles rushed,
Wrangled in and gathered up,
Garnered ganders at the ground dress struts, treble in the trembling,
When dirt and debris are disagreed in which direction they’ll be set wending.
Bending lines like bending words,
Sending rhymes across the verge,
Setting time to tickle torture tropes to tumbling semaphores,
Slap together thoughts adhered with tact and sass and metaphors,
Out of doors and inside pores,
The sounds of crafting magic thirds.
It is trick, tricks, trickling blood upon the works of all creation,
It is brick, bricks, bristling with the mortar of pain and love and deep frustration,
It is scrawling on a wall with chalk for all the world to see while rain is spitting down and washing thoughts out into the street.
This is fiction of decision,
These are bones without the marrow,
This is my own derision
and the empty shrine that I keep hallow,
There are acrobats and juggernauts and actors fretting on my stage,
And the sole way to express them now’s to spill them out upon the page,
This is the age where personal is set for all who want to see to read what on the digit, digits, digital can be tread unease.