Heated...
Like the fevered blood coursing through veins

Malignant...
Like open sores upon the skin

Defeated...
Like the drums that faltered in the rain

Potent...
Like the potion quietly bunged within

Temporary...
Like the promise doomed never to be kept

Hasty...
Like the mouth which spoke too quick

Greedy...
Like the palms, too eager to accept

Dead...**
Like the heart that now refused to tick

I reckon the ages when the fogies
did ,that which wasn't bogey
and reasons why seasons did sizzle
a past never altered to past tense
for this is my utterance

Lost had nothing to post
just a gaze ,giring me a phrase
this is now the boat of amazement
bloated ;though it towed it lagged my bragging heart to fuse

I beckon with ease but not bliss
though to find peace but just please
jammed on.....
crumbled thoughts ,crumpled mind forth with a wrinkled ****** looks.
It was nothing special!

it took no nook,cranny not all the kin
all in all I found myself on the book

Something felt to be great ,
with the magnitude of the concocted ideas
the amazing grace 'song' just leveled to the latitude
those were the days ,no longer the same
Blame the game

Curtain drawn ,not yet certain
the pain is gone but still torn
born a new but just with some .....to cling on

I obliged to lean on a clean page
For the idea is no longer oblivious
Various scenes but not the obvious

It all started in the town Warwickshire,
within Stratford-upon-Avon
a magician invented a spell
a thaumaturgy from Ovid's
magnum opus and Holinshed Chronicles
that whispered an image
of kings and battles
which turned into a game of bewitchment!

Hail the Globe Theatre
where the throng gathered
and witness the sorcery
ensorcelled by the conjurer
though spell cast into ashes
and turn dreams
into a nightmare

Yet, 'Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.'