THE FUTILITY OF WRITING

There is a mockingbird
Rocking in his cage
He can go both ways
He teeters in between
In the dream field a cowbell reflects a ringing phone on the other side
In the field he is perched on the right arm of a wooden cross
He is guiding his master through the maze to make the dream break into 4D
They can not go that far
They can not follow him
Not on this thin paper
So they content to listen to the ringing phone and wait for him to come back to
Where he has not left