I brought a milkman bottled milk
To curve the rules, be sharp with wit.
Perhaps I should’ve held my time
His eyes grew wide, and too his pride
As I poured liquid, soft as silk
And in the meadow something died.
I’d hold his eye and fork my tongue
Though as it cut through brittle rock
The leather of his throat grew hot.
He’ll swing his breath to bruise the deaf,
Erupt with clouds and hence I run
As frogs might flee from legless chef.
’Tis my belief, to say the truth,
If Blue and Red could ever meet,
That cells of white would fall apart
And break their rhythm, be forgiven.
Feel the drum beat from the roof,
The cowbell silent on revision.
A poem, meant to be meaningless and following very specific guidelines. Didn’t succeed perfectly, but it’ll do.