slippery road

it was lying in front of my door
as a slippery mat
in front of a slippery road
that grew overnight from
my house of dreams
to the sea it seems
so i slid and fell
and my head filled
with the waves of
rhytms and rhymes.
(on which I sometimes swim
and sometimes dream)
somehow I got stuck
with a smile on my face
that says to everybody
what a simple soul I am;
as simple as the soul
of the trees, simpler than the asphalt
who some think has no stories to tell;
notmuch different than the soul children
and pets. I do not live the fear of wild animals
except soemtimes at night
when I cannot see
the road in front of me.
the flying mat of poetry takes me sometimes
to places where other have certainly been
but cannot remember
unless they took the pictures
of the metaphors they saw
during their unique, irrepetable trip.