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“Stitched In A Daydream Of Nonsense”

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Butterflies crying diamonds
While Bone-Woman flashes her Mona Lisa smile
There’s ghost on every rapture overturning,
The avenues of tombstones
Parallel to Cinder’s glass slipper . . .
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“Why did she leave her shoe behind?”
Twisted murmurs shuffling in ears
“Because she tripped over her guilt!”
Chuckles the Mad Hatter sipping Poetry tea
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“NO!, Time was running out, you insolent tea drinker!”
Screams White Rabbit.
Blood drips from Snow’s lips
As she slowly cracks her knuckles
“Too many apples on the ground . . . “
Her voice sounding like flower petals,
Whispering against the wind
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There was a storm arising
Wolves growling
Epitaxy nails tap tapping
Madness bloomed inside a teacup rose
“This world is nothing but a broken crystal ball.”
Muttered the Witch
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Silence was dipped in butter and eaten hastily
Fairyland is nothing more than a Fairy tale ghost town
“Just like reality; most times.”
Chesire Cat grumbled
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Inside this Garden of Hearts
Words are shuffled like a deck of cards
Epitaph thoughts sometimes are smashed and forgotten
“Help! We all are dead lost souls; all is not well”
Wails the town crier
His ghost swirling through the emerald trees
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Alice clicks her teeth
“Never follow the rabbit down a hole;
It’s like a gamble,
You never know if it’s going to be a paradise
Or absolute chaos”
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The sky is dancing with the c louds
The moon is singing
Its nighttime and Insanity
Wants to come out and play
But why should it?
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Counting scars
Which the razor created
Have we learned our lesson?
That we should love the body
Which was kindly given to us?
In order for our souls to set
Comfortably in a beautiful shell
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Though conversation
Is quite twisted in the garden
There’s meaning in each
Can you riddle it
With a fiddle and not be fickle?
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Sometimes its good to be mad
Other times a laugh is rather nice
Its pretty neat looking at the flowers here
Pulsing with the heartbeat of each corpse
Can’t you hear and see it or is it just me?
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“There’s nothing to see here. OFF With Your Head!”
Shouts the Queen of Hearts
As she folds herself
The garden and
The fairy tale ghosts
Ripping my poem into dust
And evaporating inside my pen
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. . . never mind
Imagination can only be seen
By the one who imagines it~