His World

I am the apocryphal wisdom

And I am the space between words.

The lunatic fringe of the invisible men

And the wind beneath all flightless birds.

I am the nothing worth knowing.

And I am the lies on the page.

The bleeding red ink that is Crayon drawn pink

And the jester with the mask of a sage.

I am the home without fireplace warmth.

And I am the chair without legs.

The earthquake of nonsense in a shattering globe

And the broken last carton of eggs.

And I am the dreams of the dreamless.

I am the fool’s gold of worth.

The unending scrawl of the emptying pen

And the finale this story deserves.