Narok-the-Fox

Juggling bubbling baubles is difficult for a man who hobbles with a broken leg down the street when shattered glass is cutting his feet. Perhaps I should help this man juggle the baubles, this man who pathetically hobbles, but alas, such laziness is quite a feat when you have only sausages to eat! I watch as the man topples, the man who juggled baubles, he juggles no longer the lovely treats, for they have rolled across the street.

 In the bloody rays of the rising sun, all that could be seen was sand swept by a restless wind into dunes. Dunes that stretched to every possible horizon without the slightest change. Thousands of millions of dunes, yet only a single pair of eyes to see them. A man slowly strode over the dunes, one by one, in an inhumanly straight line to the east. No skin of his was chapped by wind, nor chafed by the coarse sand over which he trod. Dark clothes cloaked the figure's body from sight, though there were no other eyes with which to see it. Only the man's shadowy pair glinted in the burning light of the morning. Only his black clothed silhouett

         The sun slowly rose over hostile land, smiling brightly at everything, though it did not care what happened to the two unlikely traveling companions plodding along below. Insects swirled through the sunbeam filled glade in clouds more dense than the nearby mountain, hungry in the strangely desolate forest. They didn't have long to wait. A few ferns rustled as a small fox emerged from between the fronds. The various insects immediately dive-bombed the creature, slamming against tattered fur in a desperate quest for the skin hidden beneath.          The fox sat down and started snapping at the annoyances buzzing around his head. He s

In a strange forge by the side of a road, Hardly seen through all the smoke, Toils a smith. He turns to stoke his flame to a blaze. For without such flame, The smith would be unable To play his word-filled game. The man, in his leather gloves, Bends over the fire and deftly grabs A white-hot The and lays it on a paper Beside a Sky. On the seam, he drops a dab Of ink from a tiny pot in his hand. Then he, with a clang, hits the seam With his heavy pen to seal them with The rest. Finally finished, a gleam Of pride lights up his eyes as he Surveys his handiwork and then, Suddenly, as he sets down his pen, "Words," he cries with

When you sleep When you cry When you slip on winter ice When you're dirty When you're wet When you track mud on the carpet When you snuggle When you sigh When you look at me with adoring eyes These are the times when I love you.

Though you did not come from me, You are my child. I love you I care for you I comfort you I hold you at night. I snuggle you I will cuddle you I look out for you I help you out of plight. I may not be a mother I may not be a motherly person, But I am your mother. You are my child, Though you did not come from me.

Forget desire           I'm burning with impatience! Impatience for your words I have not waited long But I cannot wait longer. I can't stand this distance between us. I love you! I want you! But             I don't want you                                               to touch me. You are North I am South Like magnets, we draw together, But physically we are at such a distance. I want to be closer to you But I want to be far away. I'm crying inside. I'm dying inside. This madness this insanity     I Cannot Take It Change! Change! Difference Is Good! Let new things different things come! They are good                

What a glorious sight your eyes are to mine! The light reflecting within is beautiful, be it from sun or soul! I don't believe in souls and I despise the sun's rays. Your hair shines at my eyes at times! The grease of an unshowered head gleams in the gaze of a late night computer! I have seen it do so, for I sneak into your house at times. Ode to the Leprechaun! The shortest of humans! Ode to a companion who requested poetry from a sarcastic silly! Snide-filled Ode to a colossal dork!

You see him towering there over his blackened and foiled domain. You cannot see his lordship's visage as it is obscured by the smoke billowing from the pit of his realm. With his slotted metal palm, he deftly swipes the ground pork brothers snatching them from the grasp of the flames below. Much scorn this lord has for the tuna steak coming later. But this is a natural reaction, for this is not Malachi, Tuna-Steak Friend, but instead, he is Malachi, Salvation of Hot Dogs!