Self Centered
Books will never be written On your features, on your disguises Yet I feel I have read whole volumes Dusty, leather bound, illustrated and indexed Telling of your life and mysterious smile If I was an artist I would cast you in bronze And place you atop a fountain of champagne I graffitied your name in the canyon of hope On your birthday I threw lilies into the pond of the poet I hid a horsewhip in a bouquet of geraniums I buried my pen in the orange grove of Alexandria All because of you And the feelings I get throughout my flyblown frame My bird so quiet, so self centred and far Your cage is the land, your sadness the sky I know of your brilliance, I saw it in the park I know of your aloofness, I fear it every day I hid verses of ancient poems throughout your town Sappho, Li po, Catullus, Ovid and Horrace This was my correspondence Yet you preferred the poets themselves Great stern busts hidden in mossy gardens covered in ivy For you to run your smooth