My friends no longer speak to me.
They say that I frequently,
present a strange reality.
I get accused of heresy.
With ever increasing frequency,
I’m caught in this grim fantasy,
beneath a surreal canopy.
It causes great disharmony.
This brouhaha amuses me.
I groan at their hypocrisy.
Their glaring inconsistency
reveals their moral poverty.
When they scoff derisively,
I laugh at them hysterically.
It is then that they retreat from me,
into silent mediocrity.
I live on the other side of reason.
They say that I have committed poetic treason.
That my meter and my rhyme are often out of time.
They suppose I will recover in due season.
