The Call of the Wild

The susurrus of the leaves

Of the trees caress softly

The little tabby’s cheeks

And whispers the wonders

Of the world in waves of winds

Blowing in sweet soft hues

Of the sunshine iridescently

scattering like ropes of rubies.


treason of fate


The stupendousness of darkness

In a vortex of chaos in treason

Against sovereignty of ambition

By divine immaculate conception

From the union of Psyche and Eros

In the spiritualization of sensuality

thru the enslavement of the Sense

into the ecstatic hands of desire

for absolute adoration evermore

touching the soft tissues of delicacy

of the latticework for the casement

of the soul thru which her majesty

is seen spinning a wheel of mystery

with an eagle telling her the world

he has seen, diffusing the wind of

wisdom to his beautiful solitary queen

whose heart thrilled, reason satisfied

defies her freedom of Love and Reason

and keeps her in his cellar of isolation.


P.S. What has happened to the departments of the cerebral control tower? Common Sense is falling out; Cogitation is shaking; Memory is debilitating; Imagination is trying, and Estimation is fumbling. Is this case of Aphasia? Or in the worst scenario Dyslexia, even? If so, then let it be. But memento this. Writing is not a prerogative of the pedantic. You can be boastful of writing excellent prose with a talented assistant of the brain, but never be full of yourself of touching the more excellent tissue of the heart with passion. Shakespeare was of small Latin, less Greek. 


from google

She kept all her love to herself alone, all alone,
But let her concealment, like a pearl in the clam,
Feed on her rosy cheek: she pined in thought,
And with a blue and even bluer melancholy,
She stood there like Dido by the River of Lethe,
Smiling gently at the last shadow of memory.