You will not be able to
Open nor bolt your door;
Answer nor dial your phone;
Send nor reply a text
For you had  already said goodbye
To this world, en route to the next.

With Muse filled;
Semenal words are
on the parchment spilled.

Two strange hearts falling in one love--
Deep bowl of broth--is a mystery.
Baking eyes tossing off a fancy loaf
Ere the mouth that desires fare velvety.

Once the tommy the spot hits, culinary
Delights--instead of repeating upon
The tongue--become unsavory.
Hand, picking at the spread of affection.

Dying moments by shutter
captured.
Memories in living pictures
interred.

isn't only in the number
of likes and reads and
comments obtained,
but also in it own self.

Will an eligible bloke happier be if he
Marries a ranking *ele like Miss Universe
With all her glory and graces, and 'cause
Of marriage mirth? Will a sheila pretty
An unbroken regalement have for a dream
Prince Charming--the fairy man of her whim?

Will the soul be jolly for the sophomore
More than for the frosh rapture of success
Had in the Ivy League of cosmic business,
When the heart cut a caper and an encore
Of hilarity requests of narrowed life--
To have constant binge in lieu of strive?

What man is wholly from trouble free, whose
Being be to sadness inured? Within, the
Spokes do sometimes snap at the rotary
Wheels of serenity, and chaos is let loose.
What thus can stay the pillars of pleasure in
A plagued world is above this little noggin.

The fall of any man is
hid
in forbidden things.

He that will the world
remould
should first himself recast.

Out the cot
man goes
to return
to the coffin.

Love has killed
m'heart,
which should have made
it
live.

Love its essence doth change
becoming sweetened,
mellow with age.

Words set to music
give the body tonic--
poetic melody:

rhymes, rhythms, caesuras,
meters, beats, stanzas
and envoys
in use.

Making millions of dollars
off an album,
platinum
pop stars:

hounded by paparazzi,
landed in a Jaccuzi;
deified are poets--

pursued by Muse's mustang
midst the prairies
of inspiration
trotting.

Poetry draws no pretty penny,
prizes like the Nobel
praise.

Mummy poetry is exhaling
in the lyrical pantheon
of music.

How art
thou, dear heart?

Well. Praise
God, no ill-feelings.