The fingers run over black and whites,
while strings are drawn by bow in tights.
The ducts overflow as my heart swims
unto pleasurable heights that never dims.

The sound the Canon of Pachelbel brought,
a memory outside of time in heavenly thought.
A rhythm crafted by angels where harmony lies,
seared into my soul’s entity in euphoric paradise.

The harmonious instruments in waving chorus,
summoning the days when my heart is joyous.
The feel of her hand brushing my once little head,
the love that she cast upon me in words unsaid.

How could you say that? His poetry is bad!
The article you made, made me feel mad.
It made me cringe, cringe to the pinnacle of sad.
Your article uttered words in whining ballad.
In my mind, the words are mixing like salad.

A poem is a pen artist’s feelings and emotion
The style he uses is his own artistic impression.
Rhyming or not, it hauls out a sense of expression.
Disliking a poem is your own perspective discretion.
Nevertheless, bad poems never exist in creation.

In the warmth, my soul shivers,
as I float above these blissful rivers,
with eyes like arrows in quivers
my gaze, unfazed, silent as weavers.

Dream child in my mind, apparently
wandering aimlessly, deep into a reality,
woven into a tapestry of a dream fantasy,
that I'll keep silent in my life's longevity

Children in my heart’s memories,
fill me up with nostalgic savories.
Thy presence of angelic embrace,
keeping hope in a heartfelt grace.