Old jewelry rests at the feet of ornate statues
They once had to be painstakingly painted on a canvas
And became real after the painting was burned centuries ago
Everything precious rests in the same place

A beloved cat lost to old age lays on a cushion
While his mother licks at his head attentively
Reunited again after seventeen years
Everything precious rests in the same place

A grandmother once again makes too much food
Even though she knew you couldn't finish it all
You're free to take from the plate again whenever you like
Everything precious rests in the same place

An unfinished medley plays softly in these halls
It would've been the old flutist's last piece
Though he never got the chance to quite perfect it
Everything precious rests in the same place

He was a sculptor
She was his inspiration
Never a Human
Always his muse

So when she died
He tried to resurrect his muse
With clay

He couldn't sculpt her face
He couldn't remember
He had lost his muse

Praise be punctuation
At the end of sentences
At least you could do
Something
To give us a break
Would be so kind
If you wouldn’t mind
Split up a series
To parse makes us weary
Appositives pop
Exclamations fly
In the face of
The moon
There’s one good eye
Lash
Us with parentheses
Make a bludgeon
Of the question
Of intended meaning
Must we wonder
How rhythm suffers

Praise be, punctuation!
At the end of sentences,
At least, you could do
Something.
To give us a break,
Would be so kind.
If you wouldn’t mind,
Split up a series.
To parse, makes us weary.
Appositives pop.
Exclamations fly!
In the face of
The moon,
There’s one good eye.
Lash
Us with parentheses!
Make a bludgeon
Of the question.
Of intended meaning,
Must we wonder?
How rhythm suffers!

It’s still a part of the story
No matter how far apart
It be
Whether or not you read

I was to catch her
in  the rye
Maybe maybe
say goodbye

Alex stood naked
cloaked in orange
singing shivers
in the rain

We all know
how the story goes
So it goes
So on it goes

El Bib the acronym
To be read
back and forth
from end to end

Huckleberries
the river flows
down wrong paths
Big Jim he knows

I was the phoney
in the rye
A clockwork orange
in disguise