Smokescreen

Sometimes I wonder if my thoughts,
Would stand up as decorations of sorts,
Or if they’d work as a big smoke screen,
Through which I’d look quite serene,
Maybe I’ll pile them up and paint them red,
Fashion them into posters for my four-poster bed,
Or grind them into pulp so fine,
They’d make for heady intoxicating wine,
If I stuck some wicks and little handles,
I’d have myself a gazillion candles,
But I know that in the end all I do,
Is rhyme and write
To you.