Taxicab Hiccups

From art to artifice
From Bud Ice to buddha lite
The metaphors do not fit anymore.
Snow melted, light faded,
time crawled,
And sometimes when i had turned away
Morphed into light.
Had i been looking
I would have been blinded
Or at least dazzled
by its brilliance.
I picked a splinter from your eye once
What it was, i could not tell.
A pebble, or a pastel petal;
a figment of my imagination
Or a fragment of some lost and forgotten thought?
I try not to explain my words,
Lest I be accused of malice forethought,
Of trying to infringe upon their privacy.
Words have their own lives, you know
Put them together next to one another
And they will thrive and breed
like wild rabbits.
And probably smell just as bad.