POEM 200: EMMAGINATION OF A PENGICIAN

Sometimes,
I feel like being a pengician
with a wild loop of emmagination.

I’ll sink into a throne of papyrus
and wave my quill in the air,
pretending it a magic wand,
finger into my box full of wonders
and wobble in sheer curiosities.

One wave to the right and words erupt from dead skulls.
Another wave to the left and verses are formed on dead scrolls.

I’ll pull out stacks of cards and make em fall head over hips
on alluring lines,
sit back and chuckle when three fall one on the other
in amorphous threesome.

I used to think I own the game
until a fair lad showed me how the lame
leap listlessly long lean lines
in alliteration to his rhymes.

If I had you interpret the above,
won't you sigh and just give up?
His emmagination is such that gifts margarine
to skulls that rattle in the grave.

He writes his poems in silent nights,
and whispers them to deafened hearts.
He waves his wand and words dance about
to lyrics only gods can mime.

If you should guess who wrote this poem,
will you say it's his or mine?
Won't you say we both brewed it?
You see, guessing who wrote what
is the easy part.
Comparison of who's greater is the hardest of all.

Sometimes,
I feel like being a pengician
with a wild loop of emmagination.

But I'm just that poet with a pen
And he's the wielder of words

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