Attending a conference, suffocated by a
suit,
The drone goes on and on;
So, to stay awake, I draw an eagle on
the chair
(Well, not exactly an eagle, you know)
As the tip of my pen finishes on its
tail
I admire this eagle
So, I draw air into my lungs,
blow life into it
But my eagle disappoints.
For the next 30 minutes I whisper to my
eagle,
"Sweet eagle, rise! rise
please!"
But he doesn't (Such is the folly of
being a creator)
Then I tear up the conference paper
And set out to create a plane
With my bare hands!
I whisper to it,
"My dreamliner, off we go, up,
up"
Then I swish it away
Off it goes, up it goes
Lands on the nose of the Convenor
My dreamliner nosedives
And plunges into the Atlantic!
I am all tears.
"Oh, my dreamliner, this is so
titanic!"
I remove my handkerchief
Blow off my nose.
Seated with a psychiatrist
I laugh inwardly.
That is my world.
My sane world.
In your world, your eagle can't be
painted
Because the whir of your engines scare
them.
Hardly surprising for your lot, the
artistic lot.
2 comments:
I always disliked conferences in suits and you captured well the sentiments.
Me too, The Unknowngnome. Thanks for reading.
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Echoes of the Hills is all about you. I would love to hear your echo...