I planted a seed
and they think it’s a story,
now see the tree,
a twig with branches everywhere,
oak in the land of disease
but gypsies keep the semblance of arbor
congregating where the page is moth eaten.

I planted a story
and they think it’s real,
they drag it in coffins
when my birthday comes near,
non-celebrations alight with years
no editor will touch,
there are no additions, no subtractions.

Tales add nothing to the fact,
created just to wag the dog,
now the dog’s alive and well
but cats no longer venture near,
felines can fall for several stories
but this fiction has no end as tributes grow like rivers,
the beach is rocks but never sandy, cats know litter when they smell it.