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.
The Call of the Wild
Tag: poet
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.
Star-crossed
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.
A Cat in the Mirror 
You must be logged in to post a comment.