i lost the plot in the mixture of some crazy equation
composed of unreal numbers floating around
here somewhere, i don’t know quite where,
i’ve been looking every which way,
but nothing seems to add up
when the story doesn’t quite fit this shape
great sorrow made from lego blocks
stacked as high as they can go,
in mismatched colors, odd shapes,
boundless, upwards, onwards, one must go!
to find the hand building up a toy
made to think the sky’s the limit,
only to forget the vacuum bearing down
i spilled tea on this poem,
so it’s kinda difficult to read,
but i guess you’re not really experiencing it the same way,
since i typed it up all neat and polished—
some-what—
to post it, leave it, here on this interweb—
of-sorts—
Fred Aiken Writing 