The every day of us poetically  inspired catches
in spasms an un-living thing
inspiring light and treasures we rearrange
writing lonely in the dark we seek to reignite
catch that  fire again that
word drab when heard rearranged
with our desires our dreams and
add a little fire  within to it  while
we change reality a bit at a time
into poetic dreams.

clueberries
                  vegestaples
a pie out of
                  silly bulls
make cream with
                  may never bees
pear trees
                 in miss Issipi
Mocking
                 birds
mocking
                 we.
I gotta go
                 pea.

WHILST I beheld the neck o’ th’ dove,
I spied and read these words.
‘This pretty dye
Which takes your eye,
Is not at all the bird’s.         5
The dusky raven might
Have with these colours pleased your sight,
Had God but chose so to ordain above;’
This label wore the dove.

Whilst I admired the nightingale,         10
These notes she warbled o’er.
‘No melody
Indeed have I,
Admire me then no more:
God has it in His choice         15
To give the owl, or me, this voice;
’Tis He, ’tis He that makes me tell my tale;’
This sang the nightingale.

I smelt and praised the fragrant rose,
Blushing, thus answer’d she.         20
‘The praise you gave,
The scent I have,
Do not belong to me;
This harmless odour, none
But only God indeed does own;         25
To be His keepers, my poor leaves He chose;’
And thus replied the rose.

I took the honey from the bee,
On th’ bag these words were seen.
‘More sweet than this         30
Perchance nought is,
Yet gall it might have been:
If God it should so please,
He could still make it such with ease;
And as well gall to honey change can He;’         35
This learnt I of the bee.

I touch’d and liked the down o’ th’ swan;
But felt these words there writ.
‘Bristles, thorns, here
I soon should bear,         40
Did God ordain but it;
If my down to thy touch
Seem soft and smooth, God made it such;
Give more, or take all this away, He can;’
This was I taught by th’ swan.         45

All creatures, then, confess to God
That th’ owe Him all, but I.
My senses find
True, that my mind
Would still, oft does, deny.         50
Hence, Pride! out of my soul!
O’er it thou shalt no more control;
I’ll learn this lesson, and escape the rod:
I, too, have all from God.

Too much time to think
has guided my mind to fall
back into the black hole of depression.
This one I fear I will not be able to escape.
Its claws are gripped tight
around my neck like a hanging rope.
I feel my feet slowly being lifted from the ground.

Thoughts of you
Makes me dance
To the rhythm
Of your heart beat

.
Here in the middle with reign of moon,

Blue vein of waters flow under my feet,

And star crossed days end all too soon,

My path lies drowned above the stream.