A yearning cast upon the stars,
Where in fact was a thought from the start?
To reason with such fool only bears out fallacy,
A kind that messes up to eternity.

However, this fool reasons with forbearance,
For he knows the end lights up in exuberance.
Though his words and actions dismayed voluntarily,
His confidence thus makes the effort to construe frailty.

The boy tells his words in deathly accuracy,
Yet messes up the speech, croaked endlessly.
How will such fellow stand from his knees?
That, in fact, he sought to be displeased.

Once again, ‘tis boy, knew himself a man
Plead the eve for the opportune; he’d run.
For this man can and no longer be dismayed
All from his heart, he’ll speak, eternity be forever swayed.

I am to discern a thought
Of how a wisp would give life.
On how Pleiades’ flume gnash;
From where Orion got it’s sash.

You held on word, You were heedful of man,
Speckle of dirt washed out of pride.
Declared independence whence wrought forth Adam,
The seed of death lingered on heart contrite.

You sought to convey sentence on sin,
Yet naught would keep You away adoring such being.
Lone sacrifice You offered as salvation.
Your beloved Son, draped divinely on the cross.

Lies – I deemed were my redemption,
Elegance of thus, created my disgrace.
When shall I flee from this foolish perception?
In spite Truth facing me, offering its grace.

How is it that I fall off grace?
Grasping nowhere into an empty space;
Blank it gets my eyes forlorn,
Came a Seeker whose rest is home.

Breaking mine through the gaps,
My life was over abashed.
Faults that I hold back
Ever tainted my freed soul black.

How much do You charge me of my offense?
And fall to my knees off my bitter end.
Still…Oh, You saw me from afar
Upon that cross you bore my scar.

Knees fell still on earthy ground,
Yoke of man whose faults lay abound.
Hands pricked open, a wound of disgrace;
Fulfill thy glory – Oh Holy, in this dreadful place.

Glorious are all Your works,
From the heavens to the fertile earth.
Magnificent is the deliverance You put through,
Glad is my heart, praising a Creator like You.

A poet is daydreaming – contemplating,
Stale is his entire mind surpassed;
An accomplice confers his realization,
Neither to suffice the fool – disillusioned.

That poet daydreams, dismayed in trance,
‘A truce!’ he barters, on a fitted fray.
Frailty of his core seems definite in stance,
‘Tis anecdote… apparent of dismay.

The poet daydreams of the one he loves;
Severs the sympathy by egoism and contempt.
Scalar quantity of a breaching throb,
Under the tutelage of an infidel attempt.

The writer’s words are never dull, always honed;
Unyielding cutting edges fit for the crockery.
Elusive as emotions – tender as the blade of words sliced,
Thus cuts through the flesh, mind and soul like mockery.

Thus the poet’s mind can never be measured,
Nor does the ability of a man can overcome;
For both come from the Divine – Oh, highly favored!
Poetry of prose, so unique and unstrung.