poem

The mind is a bazaar
Words flow throughout its pathways
Foul-stenched to be verbs are bought only by little children
Lumbered away by the more complex cerebral cortex
Who prefers vivid beautiful descriptions
Along with the occassional insomniac who comes stumbling from a dark alleyway
Their purchases grow
Until pen is put to paper
And the embodiment of the goods creates a work of art
Formally known as a poem