#16 - The Leaping Poet

He intoned earnestly:

"Mercy me, I do love thee, my sweetest dear sweet-pea.

If words were curds and bards made lard I’d churn an urn of cream."

#7 - The Sveater

The sveater was full of holes and hung forgotten in the closet alone like a jilted lover left to cry on a rainy street or a flea carcass clinging to a single hair long after the passing of its life-force; a tiny speck on the face of a world lost somewhere in the universe.

It had belonged to a poet and been the subject of many an ode or sonnet.