Whimsical Without Wisdom
In twilight’s hush, where shadows play,
He’d weave a spell of words astray.
Eloquent, yet empty, void of sense,
A maestro of meaning, lost in his own defense.
His words, a maze of twisted corridors,
A labyrinth of language, that none could explore.
He’d chase the wind, with phrases that danced and played,
As others wandered, lost in his verbal shade.
His mind, a canvas, where thoughts did stray.
A kaleidoscope of colors, in a chaotic array,
He’d paint a picture, of words that swirled and spun,
As others watched, mesmerized by the whirlwind begun.
His words, a storm that raged and calmed,
A tempest of tongues, that left all disarmed.
In moonlit nights, where stars shone bright,
He’d speak of dreams, that never took flight.
His words, a river, that flowed to the sea,
As others listened, with ears that couldn’t hear.
His heart, that burned with fervent zeal,
A passion for poetry, that few could feel.
He’d pour his soul, into each verse he’d write,
As others yawned, with hearts that refused to ignite.
In morning’s dew, where flowers bloomed bright,
He’d speak of love, that never took flight.
His words, a symphony, that harmonized the air,
As others listened, with ears that couldn’t hear.
His spirit, a bird, that sang with reckless abandonment.
A melody of madness, echoes throughout all establishments.
He’d soar on eagle’s wings, with words that danced and played,
As others watched, with eyes that refused to gaze.
In shadows dark, where secrets whispered low,
He’d speak of truths, that few could ever know.
His words, a mystery, that none could unravel or unwind,
As others listened, with ears that couldn’t hear.
His epitaph: “Whimsical without wisdom.”
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