embellishment upon thy heart

I garnish thy feelings with an embellishment of idyllic love
A sort of imaginary romantic stimuli that could never materialize
Such cherubs and harps upon the mind of the hopeless are but figments
That come upon a time where love does abide but it is an ideal

Such hallowed thoughts scorned to be nevermore upon thy muse
Yet the sun does not ridicule neither does the dew

The tide is adorn with the words of the poet
For such beauty begins from the embossment from the heart
Yet how can I say any other way than that the poet inscribes
The relation between the moon beams and beauties such as thee

Advertisements

idyllic grace

Has the light upon the hearth gone by
For what has ever been love has been a lie,
Majesties of the morns to never cease
Have not dried from the winter’s bitter wind,
the beacon of the celestial body
upon the night’s intercession
has moved the spirit unto its breast
to feed unto inspiration’s crest;
nature’s beauty: a passionate consorter and muse
for when she looms I am enthralled upon
by her idyllic beauty and grace

from one to another

The lucidity of sanity is not what I conform
For I am manifestation of a balanced free form
I must clarify that I am trying to speak of will
That which is either free or not I yet have not made that choice
To harmonize what I speak is to take the majesty of insanities breath away
The lunacy of which I loom is but a visualization of immaculate doom
I only mean to narrate upon that which is gone, that which I never had
Seeing that I have impended that which is to come
I can only say that all I have ever wrote
Has been a sycophantic versification from Life to Death

poetic vice

subtle becomes the air as though it is not of need
a softness through the movement of time
a beauty of Venus seems to have breached my sense
as though the moon appeared and stood still within evening’s light
I cannot help but to feel, to see such light is a tear through a dark veil
Visualizations as such are what heavens leak upon the earth
For what could I say to entice such a poetic vice
For I shall lead with my word and follow with my heart

unto the night

a tone of crimson sounds the hue of dying light
speak of the sun for soon it will be gone
thy hands weary from the day’s misadventure
and my eyes tire from the light that is soon to die
speak of the work that has been done for soon there will be no more
the tools rusted and loose no bevels to the edges anymore
and forever more the sight of the crimson sky and the dying of the light
to always remember he who plowed the fields and to see him unto the night

April morn

the failing flower seeps the dawn’s early dew
such a quest of the heart’s delight
that which is the beauty of a falls morning sight
the wonder upon the leaves as they lay to die
the crisp within the air as it prepares to freeze
such life hidden within the demise of nature’s spring bride
it shall come again upon an April morn
the question is my love, shall we be there to welcome it in

fate’s shameless fame

the spirit materialize within thy actions
fate manifests itself with the consequence
likes seeds one plants to harvest upon the days to come
what hours pass by you know well
what is to come is an enema you know not
you may dig a grave or dig a well
either feast or feed upon the worlds loom
yet when that final day comes will the sunrise say I knew him well
follow me not down madness lane
through the grove of shameless fame
all I know is that thy hand is not my own
and that the earth is never to be thy home