He is the real Mr. Midas,
and as he rubs his hands in preparation,
gold dust falls, and golden notes echo throughout existence.
He is one who doesn't question value, doesn't measure faith,
just knows what it is and feels like.
His aural glow spreads, soft yet pronounced,
and all he needs to do to succeed, is to touch it.
Greed is not a creed you should judge me by, he says,
and I genuinely want your well being, friend,
but because you are my friend, I want it.
Step ciphers, deaf tones, sparkling hats, and torrid bones,
things don't make sense until you see yourself in them.
He is Midas, and whatever he touches, turns to gold.
Monday, November 16, 2009
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3 comments:
Your poem is whimsical and moody, but it lacks a sort of spark...and it's too cryptic. Try being forward and direct in a poem--see what happens.
A lot of people have said this about what I write - I'll definitely give it a shot :)
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