M. C. Escher
On my endless voyage through the mists
I came across a seemingly abandoned brook,
with surreality flowing rampantly in the woods
As quickening anticipation rushes to its peak.
Then, slipping off the leafy cover of the brush-
Hark! A witness to the rarest of magical spectacles.
I arrive at assembly of slithering technicolor textures,
A clandestine festival of speckle-scattered herbivores
And jungle-cloaked enclave of hidden chameleons.
Subtle at first, but a mine-field exploding colors-
The way of these expressive, yet elusive creatures
Tipped with curiously-coiled slips of shifting scales,
Melding into funky earthen tones and replicating stones.
The cornerstone of mirage in far-passed eras and beyond
Embedding patterned color-coated harmonies through time
And united to re-kindle their skillful pact as chosen changelings,
A reprisal to their legacy and exclusive language of deception.
The old wood's clever triple agents daubed in vibrant shades
Heralded together by their chameleonic pheromones.
Unlike their nocturnal prowling counterparts,
These crafty, mischief-clad scouts of undetected observation
are overlooked at any time of day, the sneaks!
Forbidden skills to other creatures in the expansive underbrush.
The old and wizened lizard among the gallery of shades
Reverberated with his thoughts images to his friends:
I too have spoken with those who speak with us.
The seasons are askew, birds collapsing,
foliage dissolving, magnetic poles completely flung-
Our language is a life vest for this chaos.
Quick! Let's hasten to our respective roosts.
And with that, my memory fell prey
To their haze-ridden, ethereal traps,
Never to observe their breed again.
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