The World of Paper

Where do I stand,
It's all white.
Sometimes lined,
Many-a-times just plain.
But it's a wonder as it is,
Others don't seem to notice;
And nobody does ever concur,
that their beloved, evermore
world is made of paper.

Vulnerable to fire,
Susceptible to rain
And still keeper of all.
It stands on a whim,
will fall if base gets taper.
Gradually it's tearing,
No matter how greater,
But still, I shall not amend,
After all, it's a world of paper.
Thence I ask myself,
Where do I stand?

Out of the Window

One day,
Sometime around noon,
Something behind the
transparent glaze,
Something inadvertently,
Caught my variable gaze.

Far beyond that rocky road,
Further beyond that unlit
stern black lamppost.
Was a distinct place,
A peculiar vicinity,
A strange indenture and
an odd blank space.

Not that anyone hadn't lived there,
Nor that it was nobody's home.
It just looked to everyone solid,
But beneath that, 'twas all foam.

There that place stood which
some called the 'world', behind
that layer of thin air, behind
that transparent framed glass.

Even through the nightfall,
It seemed far from the still
rocky road;
And farther from the lightened
lamppost.
But as still it may be--
I pulled the blinds of the window
'Cause I didn't like the world.
But I sure do hope that
That place still exists today.
Away from my sight,
Out of the window.

A Scenic Cliché

A Range of mountains,
Covered by a sheet of snow, which
runs down like an angel spreading its wings, of
which I'm sure, you do have seen before.

And alas! No wonder,
there is a river that
emerges from the bottom
of the underworld which
is unheard of, uncalled for,
but still, not unknown.

Oh, I still wonder,
if the heavens know,
how much I flout the platitudes,
how much I despise the banalities.
But pinched under utter sarcasm,
I find myself admiring the beauty of
A Scenic Cliche

Snow - A Haiku

White like nothing before;
so they tell, but I wonder,
Had I seen the snow?

A Broken Sword

A dilemma.
Shining blackness. To the heart.
Made the world. Red-colored.
In my hands it lie, silent.
Like a bouquet.
Slanting to the heart.
Resembling a whole.
But broken -- in a way.

Carried down a path.
No critique. No dissent.
Just reflecting a dim-lit light.
Seemingly harmless.
Dreadfully deceiving.

Blunt on a side, perhaps.
Lost its grip.
Its anachronous;
Ephemerally eternal.
Possession of a swordsmen.
Articulate and silvern.
But broken fires it lay.