Succinctity’s Mate ::

This poem you see,
is green inside-

with eggs and toast,
when one wishes… to coast-
and asks-
does your breakfast have the most?

ham and roast… that is!
A fez I wore,
on holiday retreats with the old neighbors…
A maze was torn,
through memories of

Autumn pies and September drives—
moat the roads with emotive accellerant,
for the throttle has slipped and choked open wide…

The naugahide no more,
laughing at the floors;

a bore
nor a chore-
to scrub the clean the covers of…

what was once tangible, those

brown beaded
Seats.

Atop the dodge omni, he left his book-

Come one December morning,

a warning!

there’s a gloaming aside the pale blue ride—

take death in stride!

for it’s just a;

Turn in direction,
of-

the ride…

Inside.

Or out-

Don’t pout!

Be not afoul to clout aclutter,
ones mental state must not sputter!

Dostyevsky wrote and wrote,
as such I’d like to introduce him to,
a strange fellow I know….
but haven’t seen around,
or found—
in some time-

we refer to him only in this rhyme:

His name to chime? Says you in song? Succinctity,
he calls himself.

And he’s been missing a LONG ….

time.

16,022 thoughts on “Succinctity’s Mate ::”


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