Chop-Chop

So precariously he scrawls,
like a fatuous child
with no cause,
only balmy interpretations of
life

and presumes his words are PONDEROUS, like Poe's
as though penning them with grassy ink
will indubitably grow a tree
or better yet an apple please

Perhaps he's deemed poetry as fleeting,
like time
and cannot be pondered longer than the color blue;
I wouldn't know
as his scribbling is nothing more
than a precarious bout of
wanton