Stout caricatures
come to life
on the boardwalk of natural pleasantry,

stretched foreheads
and foreshortened torsos
gleaming with impish security.

One day they’d be worth millions,
but they won’t survive that long.
Nobody will care for them,
they’re child’s play in the eyes of sensibility.


Author: Aidan Badinger

Wharved.com I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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