I met a pen in the middle of the rain,
it twirled on its tip
and whispered my name.
It scribbled sideways,
upside-down,
to the side,
painting its wonders on the walls of my mind.

My thoughts, obsessed, chased logics in spirals,
round staircases of clocks and giggling virals.
Every thought hopped on a carousel of dreams,
leaping through windows,
swimming through golden thread streams.

My tongue was tied in bundles of velvet,
it wanted to dance but needed a helmet.
It hummed to the daisies,
it hummed to the moon,
it hummed to the echo of an old silver spoon.

Memories tumbled from teapots and chairs,
carrying wondrous wonders,
dancing, daring, and rare.
A city of feathers,
a river of light,
pianos that grew wings and took flight in the night.

The pen leapt and pirouetted,
possessed on some tree,
my mind spun on mirrors of impossibilities glee.
The tongue finally laughed,
though softly, though small,
and I saw the world spinning,
wondrous,
through a wondrous all.