.
For some it is a poetic crime
to ever use an imperfect rhyme.
As the Emperor of enunciation
I embrace differing pronunciation.
So chain not words up in a prison
let them go with their own rhythm.
.

© Pagan Paul (Sept 2015)

In life we wither
slowly as we go
through seasons weathers
nature always grows.

We can contemplate
and we can always worry,
we can’t subjugate
so we suffer covertly.

If we took a seed
to sow, no fear,
even noxious weeds
know reasons it’s here.

As the years start to orbit
and time keeps on ticking,
worry about your wallet
it won’t show in your coffin.

Summers end pinches us
for the seeds we have sown,
disbursement of pods fuss
for the spring, to be grown.

With nothing to lose
with nothing to fear,
if it’s dwelling you choose
whilst you spend your time here.

Nature knows it snows
and nature knows it’s flaws,
still happy it knows
a new seasons open doors.

Only to bloom and admire bliss
whilst they are working hand in hand,
with Mother nature’s glistening kiss,
perhaps one day we will understand.

A song surrounds
with notes that travel
acting like dancing shoes.
Invisible coverings that
perpetuate me upon dance floor.

My bodies flowing movements
breaks air currents.
Songs acts like sacred etheric cloak
vibrating into ear canals
to be picked up by traveling cells.
Its destination, the heart.
Its purpose, to free feet to dance
and mind to let go
of worries and woes.
limitations and lack.

A fine place to be.
to dance in freedom
with eyes closed.
A grand place to be
dancing as if prose.