Poetry Monday

I'm out on a limb here. I'm not a poet. I've never claimed to be. I fancy myself a solid prose writer, so I'm not sure if this little poem is even worthy of the term. I wrote this as simple writing practice. Quite a few writers say that writing poetry, even bad poetry, is a good exercise. So, I submit this for your consumption. Tell me what you think.

Thoughtless

There is nothing on these pages,

Turning wrinkled and fluttering

Through veils of belief and necessity.

The walk is littered with fragrances,

Of heather and sand and dung

Bled and mattered over is and not.

Rusting in failing festooned garments,

Riding a wave of fractaled cement

To light on monuments of false gods.

Painted smiles tracked with grief,

Pour endlessly into a barren

Fountain of sand and epitaphs.