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There's a cabbage patch of pillows
In my brain most of the time
Tumbling like a cartwheel
Down the washboards of my mind
Umbrella trees with plastic leaves
Embroidered on a purse
Have rehashed dreams of laughing gas
That creep in like a nurse
The faithful live in temples
Where the solemn seldom dwell
Castrated lives through honey hives
Like frosted-layered hell . . .
A redhead pecks a tree trunk
While a brunette sucks her thumb
Reminding me what's plainly seen
But rarely overcome
I recall a potent potion
Sometimes stirred with a wooden spoon
But I drink what may befall this day
Beneath a bloodshot moon
And the stars illuminate the dead
Through holy wicker baskets
Who choose to sleep inside instead
Their dusty wooden caskets . . .
But ignore these earnest wishes
And to those whom life bestows
A wealth of broken dishes
Between some crooked cornstalk rows
Despite the nature of the trek
Down corridors of pain
A ghost egg spun from spider webs
Still complicates my brain
And it rests upon these pillows
In this cabbage patch of mine
Slowly incubating
With the fears I've left behind . . .
So renew your inhibitions
And be weary of your friends
For the ghost who laid this awful egg
My have her chance once again

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