I felt inspired to write some fun poems. The sun is peeping through the dense of green, following the breeze through the leaves. It’s a happy feeling, this summer evening.
Fibonacci built a house with a spiral staircase to infinity, but the hearty choke is dressed in organic mathematics. The tenebrous of the heart mulls its elegant bracts that look green to me, but it's pulpy under the choke of design. So when she scents it with rosemary, spices it with garlic and sets it in the kiln, it turns like the stuff homes are made of. She thinks it's overcooked, I think it's simply the spiral of time.
These sandals are a personal artifact and I like the beadwork so much. I promised to write a poem to them, so here it is but I consider it a work in progress.
But Musonius, you had the expanse of the Aegean in exile. I have the constraints of turquoise on my feet that have been too stoic to seek sand. Poetry is not a luxury say some, nor philosophy in beach thongs. I say sandals are a privilege because the artisan in Nairobi fashioned countless hours into beads on leather, so I may feel grand on a sofa.