I Like Poems You Can

So I Cradle This Average Violin That Knows Only Forgotten Showtunes, But Argues The Possibility Of Free Declamation Anchored To A Dull Refrain.

Imagine A Painter Crucified By His Subject!

How Many People Came And Stayed A Certain Time, Uttered Light Or Dark Speech That Became Part Of You Like Light Behind Windblown Fog And Sand Filtered And Influenced By It, Until No Part Remains That Is Surely You.

Much That Is Beautiful Must Be Discarded So That We May Resemble A Taller Impression Of Ourselves.

What Is The Past, What Is It All For? A Mental Sandwich?