Have you met the mad poet who doesn’t deserve happiness?
The early moon-day skies are mothering cries on the mad pallet;
the reddest rivers will green many bluish ideas on this sad planet
like half-blood titans descending into mortal hermit
with eyeing minds on the infinite skies without permit.
Virtually toxicated images are raising altar for madness;
oddly faced gods will have painted former multiverses
storing like imagined jpgs of beauts’ bare badness
with brute-looking pngs’ sweet kisses of sadness.
Two decades of megatons are whiting on the horizon’s garret;
a new simulation will take place with an unchanged habit
working with the same colors of the sad, mad, bad pallet
with drawing circles until the pocket poet’s on this planet.
You have met the mad poet who doesn’t deserve happiness.