Little Half Ostrich Boy (Flightless Mother)

I asked the wordsmiths of the West
That I had praised as the worlds best
How they had tempered all their syllables to steel
And still were blessed to find
Within these words were the honest things they feel

And they pointed to the poet with the blotting pen
To her Rorschach canvas and her loyal men
Who mistake these shadows on the wall  for the
Truth be told to the deaf
Who read her lips with bias
and to the picture they prefer a silhouette

Id take on the Queen of Spades
But I'm just a Jack
Of all trades and a master of Jack

The veneer and guise of the noble lies
That I've been eager to believe
There's hypocrisy in my sophistry
 So veer inside this synapse hive
Find winter shroud seeds beneath
And have a harvest with the wordsmiths and the queen

I asked the wordsmiths of the East
That I praised as the wisest of the three
How the ephemeral could cure their malcontent
and solipsistic plight
Without thanking gods for what they find.

AsAmI