Animus & Intellect Vol 1 | Page 6

Poet: Colin S Smith

Terza Rima for Walking Home

I can smell it later

to feel awake when I demand.

I take the stairs, not the elevator

while looking a buffoon

when meeting the museum’s curator.

Talk about: Picasso, native harpoons,

of what art can do,

or craters on the moon.

Bidding adieu,

enter the land of fools

who do not embrace the day in lieu

of rushing through school.

Finding scattered index cards on tramped

grass reading “cool,”

the dirt felt damp;

like textures of a lucid dream.

No one looks up at an unlit street lamp.

To walk home is to untangle the seams

that tie the strings

of one’s fabricated schemes.

See? Creative juices

flow when locked inside.

It is better for the recluse

to love one’s mind like a bride;

to feel fireworks in the brain collide.