Ah another week is done along with a wonderful poem. Actually I have two this week, this week and the one I wrote two weeks and was still debating it’s fate. Well it was good in my standards, so it’s out the corner.
Today’s poem was written while I was on a pretty good poetry high. I have been revising poem for a chunk of the week . Sometime I sorta get a high or I should say, a bit a rush on it. Oh course constantly playing Depeche Mode Soothe my Soul a few time, was the icing on the cake. However, I prefer the term high, just suit my mood but like all good high, it’s total rotten when you crash. Oh last when I went to bed, yea, that was nasty crash.
Ah the life of a mad poet, yes don’t denial it. All poets are mad or is what the Muse whispers in our ear.
Anyway, so there are two poems for you to enjoy. One these days I submit a shorter one for the group, one these days. Just don’t hold your breath
Let us be bold -
Run that golden sword through somebody
on the left of you. Then find the ninth threshold
of your life but don’t sigh in front of it.
It’s only living accordance of the mighty rule
of other who are being the – Oh never say,
tempt not, who calls out a name with knives.
Who will unwind my life awkward tales?
Surely there must be a use for the stories
and the lies of a skeptical bitch.
And would the spring sun be slighted, if I ask
if I could desaturate its wonderful light of late.
Too often, it seems too false for the minutes
who circle the thoughts in attempts to jail them.
So onto -
Wondering who controls the fate of the flowers.
Oh so beautiful and so entangled with death time.
All beautiful things must be crumble into -
Death’s most wonderful outstretch arms.
Where is the love? Where is the concrete truth
when another lie hits your tired face at midnight.
Now, now – there are guests reading this page.
and I don’t want them sighing at the last end.
After all- I have still catch that rotten bastard of late.
However, fate has a magnificent flying broom
and end does love his joy rides on it.
Then onto the final question – where does the feet
take me in the hour I call for God’s answer?
Yes for tonight – let us say that the moon
is crafted out of white rose petals. All in their
peak of perfection and all being love -
despite the April’s 1st bank of clouds.
Then onto things that are lost, only need to
raise up their old locks and unlock them.
After all, you are their silver key, blessed too
for you have legs that can saunter away.
And why must love?
pits itself against itself
After all, you live once and love -
Ah to be magician, raise the black wand
and a rabbit comes hopping out the hat.
Except I’ll conjured up a sweet frog
and kiss it’s sweet wet nose and you’ll -
She just shake her head at those thoughts
along with the day being written with the rain.
Then wonder if the next full moon, could be once
be crafted from the left over white rose petals.
But that’s not the dream one wants to hold
and better to ground it into the his grave.