I walk into the prime RF wave
Where the space is thick with fraudulent motives
I see him there
Sorting out the wreckage that remains
He sits upon a white couch
Window dressed with precedent navy blue drapes
While his anguish takes egress
He greets me with open arms
And takes my hand to dance
He whispers to me as we sway
His message is quite clear
“The apocryphal is a high castle wall
The infallible fathers the fall”

.          IF I WERE A POET

                             The
                     First stanza
                     would be a      
       magnatic attic captivating
            Elegant architects of
                     iridescence  
                        Vividly
       propelling pupils to edges
                 Of the schleras        
        Compelling pens to pages
                    of new eras
    

            IF I WERE A POET
                                
                         ­              The
                              Second
                 Stanza would
             Mirror Zues's
          spear slicing through
        tears drowning in clouds
         striking fields of pens
                        Egniting the
                    capsules of
                 Variegated
               Lands


            IF I WERE A POET

                            The
                     Last stanza
             would sail summers
           tame winters bathe in  
         springs of autumn praise  
           deeds of the monarchs
           reigning over raining
           rainbows nurturing the
         clouds planting wings on
       the ground giving free will
          to plants to seed the sky  
           with warmth and love
                of nature's heart.

FLAMES from furious friends fighting ferocious fears, forever fueling fuminous faith.

INCESSANTLY incinerating innocence in innerselves. Insidiously influencing introspective introverts.

RISING rapidly.
radically rapturing rectitude rampantly, reconcering raibors.

ENDLESSLY eclipting ecstatic event. enecting eruptions.
eradicating elation .

Moles with wings, how is the sky suppose to breathe
From notions of blunt pencils that we never read?
Words baled within the mind, you're prisoner confined in pages aging, facing life setences.
The Size of your pen is,
Still judged by the masses.

There's no peak but pick up the pace without being haste.
Peeking in pools of fame will drown your gaze.

Shoes within rules fit perfectly,
when they broom the room of humes endlessly.