Interesting

I think about a poem of
a province strange to mind,
of making a cellular love
with words grotesque of kind.

The pedal point would be adrift
in such a piece of art.
Sincerity would make a shift
from being rich and smart.

Remunerative would that thing
impede fruitition clear.
So I suggest I better sing
a tune considered dear.

With whispers from the stars aligned
beyond the world's embrace,
I echo that the poem signed
would easy be to trace.

In strands of twilight's golden lace
the thoughts begin to calm.
A language foreign to the race
opposed would be to psalm.

The canvas of the sky evolves
with hues unseen by eye.
The only thing the foolish solves
is how to be it by.