The Fog is Afoot
The fog is afoot.
The door is ajar.
The jam is on the highway.
The toast is in the bar.
The world is elemental
Or maybe it’s just gone nuts.
I would lie next to you
But truth be we’d be abut.
You can be in arrears,
But you won’t have more than one.
Things aren’t as they appear,
But a pear ripens in the sun.
I can pucker my lips
If you want to buss,
Or I can look very foolish
As you mount the bus.
You can mount a stead
Or even a campaign
At the end of the day
The results may amount to pain.
There is no anear,
But the stars are afar.
We can be in accord,
But not in a musical bar.
The measure of a man
Maybe of little note.
But notes in a measure
Keep the song afloat.
So is a song a boat
Afloat on a river?
Oar are we lost at sea
Our arrows and us aquiver?
Love is a mystery,
The deepest some have said.
I don’t know, though
It may all soon come to ahead.
You could be apart
Or a part of loving pair
Love is a strange feeling
That the estranged do not share.
So, is the fog afoot?
Is the door ajar?
Is love as near
As a falling star?
If you’re in a jam,
Can you be in a preserve,
Or is that only something
fruit and animals deserve?
Lovers have forever asked
And Philosophers have refrained,
If to be in love is love.
Is to be insane sane?
.
.
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