What music is this?
That you keep playing inside your mouth.
Ever so quietly that I can't catch the tune.
What sport is this?
That you follow between the branches and adrift eyes.
Like the winner is somehow superior.
What literature is this?
That you fire behind doors of dignity.
If the only literate were you.
What plot is this?
That playeth hide-n-seek like a weasel.
Only thorns are inevitable.