So, today's poem is short, funny, and probably completely nonsensical unless you're familiar with Terry Goodkind's Sword of Truth book series. (Which, while I'm on the subject, is fantastic and should be read by everyone who likes emotionally authentic, well-written high fantasy.) Is that the mark of a bad poem? Inability to translate a scenario to one unfamiliar with it? Probably, but oh well. Hits and misses.
There’s nothing like the feel of stone
underneath your toes,
or the kiss of wind upon your skin
while spring its whisper blows.
The clouds above shift in language
I augur atop my wizard’s rock,
clouds like runes, scribbled sigils,
and lace upon a lady’s frock.
Speaking of frocks, who needs clothes?
Nudity’s the greater joy!
Here atop my rock I’m free and–
Oh! Richard, my boy!