If I recall correctly, my English professor 
Cefalu said “wow this is a tough poem,” and that’s really all you need to know. Anyway, here’s a little metaphysical poetry for all you bards and rhapsodists out there.
In blinded windows’ morning light
A child gnaws his plate with vigor
Yet mortal are those walls of white
For soon is made by wings disfigured
Current thoughts beg love of name
Yet vague it is how to commence
Nicks and cuts do harm to frame
But dents of soul are more immense
If only this were but a fashion
Indentured even elders are
Forever? or just Present’s passion?
One shade between tattoo and scar
Pinata proves to be no horse
For no sweet stab doth end remorse