Clichés and Keyholes

Writing from obscure
Windows makes not
A poet, Child
Nor does flailing
Without any rehearse
Give angst to
word, Yet seeing
clearly I yell
down an empty
Hallway, Or is
Anyone listening really
To epic literature
Lessons, Jumbled up
With musings from
A past life
One that tried
To Kill its
Author, But heroes
Only fade in
Movies, Or something
We humor ourselves
But laughing comes
Later, When dying
is less immediate
And Autumn fades
Pertaining to discourse,
No rhythm fits
Verse, No line
Saves the plot
A ten gallon
Hat weighs no
Less, Even if
A hatter dares
To have tea
With a Doormouse
Hold on see
There is revelance
After all critics,
Just when books
Closed, doubters realized
That Alice was
Alive and well
In Wonderland no
Less, And poet
He relates verse
To the whirlwind
Of life seen
Through a keyhole
Inside a little
Door, created by
Another tortured soul
Just as beautiful
As old wine
Many escape labels
Of insanity perhaps
Though every person
Looks,  Not all
Of them see