The Avant-Garden. By CpSingleton © 2016
Stretch yourself in avant-garden.
Allow the purple rays of comfort
To tickle your senses and flood
Your sated mind, my dear.
For this where the tiny thoughts,
Those without leash or bind,
Scamper hither and there in hope
To find the hand of the Mousai.
This where the willow trees
Dance to sounds of Dionysus’.
Where I see you and in return
You and I become as one.
Where form evaporates to leave
Boundless possibilities for those
With wit and secret smiles to
Test the laws that man as set.
In this garden, this tiny world,
There are no fences to trip,
No possessive pronouns to
Mist the eyes with green.
This is freedom of expression!
These are ladles of fresh soup
Made to whatever your frenzied
Buds require. This is heart’s art.