I write poetry. Poorly

The moon wore shoes of silver thread,
And danced where all the tulips bled.
A teacup sang beneath the stairs,
While Tuesday combed the polar bears.

The evening smelled of purple rain,
A cabbage caught the midnight train.
Three butterflies in Sunday clothes
Discussed the politics of toes.

The stars fell softly into June,
And someone buttered up the moon.
A lonely spoon, with noble grace,
Went looking for its proper place.

The ocean whispered through the wheat,
While thunder knitted tiny feet.
A daffodil, both wise and stout,
Put all the morning shadows out.

Then somewhere past the edge of why,
A velvet chicken learned to fly.
She crossed the heavens, proud and free,
And laid an egg inside the sea.

And there it rests beneath the foam,
Where wandering dreams have made their home.
For nothing means exactly what
We think it means…

Except the rutabaga.


Probably not