here is a poem i wrote about my toys and love for toys. i have no poetic education, so this might not be classified as a poem. it's a string of words that i thought sounded pretty together that i wrote while thinking of toys. i guess everything can be about toys, then, since that's pretty much all i think about.

ode to the sculptor
i lie awake.
alert.
restless.
a cold lump on the floor, contorted,
mimicking my false idols
as they dance in suspended animation.
perfect white bliss shines through the edges,
bathed in blessed light, sharing emptiness.

it knows not, nor cares. only is.
yellowed skin, withered by brutal winds,
it calls out through hushed lips,
so simply sculpted, approved by eyes
equally silent, soft and guiding.

i can almost taste the love as i
lick the silky surface, spreading saliva
into the deepest reaches
of the human senses.
i can only imagine the solitude,
the endless valley of concentration,
trapped within each curve.

the world may crumble and fall
outside the walls of the fated sculptor,
and though their flesh may also burn
and free the soul from a form
that exists as a pain stitched prison,
the colors, sketches, and statues
produced through calmed fingers,
etches away the passing of time.
immortal, everlasting beauty.

.....there once was a man from Nantucket