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.

Allow them to bequeath
desires upon their earth.
Let them grow the heath
like an endless childbirth.
Let them have their order
Let them have their disorder.
I’ll not mind what is theirs
for as long as their affairs
are within territorial shares

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.

One hide things in the dark,
but in a single flick and spark,
the hidden shame will bark.

They are…..
my heralds of painful bliss.
my heroes of chaotic peace.
the venomous antidote, I breathe.
the spell of this poem, I weaved.

In them lies…..
my dreams of light in pitches of dark.
the keys of my black heart, I refused to hark.
the sweetest fragrance of life, I adorned.
my heart of leviathanistic wants, I scorned.

Theirs is….
the innocent flesh of imaginative crimes.
the smiles of pleasure in frowning times.
the angelic soul with devilish temptation.
the source of my mind’s willful confliction.

THEY ARE
THE EPITOME OF INNOCENCE

IN THEM LIES
THE HOPE TO KEEP MY RESILIENCE

THEIRS IS
THE LEVIATHAN OF MY CONSCIENCE

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.