What threatens and congests my chest
Is neither feeling nor felt
But frustration at the April snow
At the frozen tendencies of me
Which move so slow
And yet, never for the life of them, seem to melt
Frustrating is this man called me

The pulse of love beats inside of me,
Relegated to never be released or made full use of.
My inner compass always pointing to a seal unbroken
Like undisturbed pillows on a display bed - always made.
Sheets fitted - made ready for the unmaking.
Then seized by some inner fear, affecting all that I ever dared,
Usurping you my love, the you without a name.
Yet, how easy it begins in these faceless rhymes,
They ensnare my heart with their private crimes.
How safe is love, how sacred still,
Where no one reads of my inner hidden will.
What good is it that I can wink when it goes unknown,
With nothing shared or to call my own?
Yet, my love deserves no enemy nor grudge,
Just the presence of my heart as the consummate judge.
In this court I sit chained and broken
With discerning eyes scouring me until I’m deemed a token.
Unbridled, unsought, a wretched mess,
Swift to dispatch me off to less and less of my own access.
Oh, had there been a covenant I could have served the crown,
With virtuous, heady and proper nouns
Or had I been given the pass of my big heart freed
I could write unoppressed with the noblest indeed
But my tuneful harp is forever unstrung,
While heaven waits for my loving sounds,  my songs are yet unsung.

Amazingly,
an untold number of animals
live upon this planet

This planet is not only our home
but theirs as well

Yet, humanity stands Alone
And is solely responsible
for destroying
This Planet

She had long, golden, silken hair.
Her skin was pale, oh so fair.
He lips divine, the colour of a deep red wine.
The men would fight for her hand, and for a piece of foreign land.
She was learned and wise in her ways Reading books in Latin, French and English to pass her days.
As well, she could read music, dance in time, play on the Harp a melodious rhyme.
She was a prize, sought far and wide which left the Maiden quite horrified!
She had a plan to pack a bag, run away, make her escape.
Late at night she made an attempt, climbing through the heating vent.
She was outside and past the gate, not knowing where lies her fate.
Left or right, which way to turn?
Would one way be freedom, the
other would she burn?
Decision made, the Maiden turned right and set off at a pace.
She walked all night until the sun came up and showed her she was in a good place.
A glade of beauty with water fall, flowers of every colour, tumbling river with salmon leaping, butterflies pollinating, ladybirds in all their glory.
The fair Maiden pulled out a pocket book and decided to write, short stories, about the beauty of her surrounds.
Her stories were of dragonflies hovering on the pond, frogs on logs in the middle of a bog, bees on flowers, she would write about which creature had the ultimate power.
Then she would draw what she saw and together she made a book all beautifully bound in leather.
Her stories became famous throughout the countryside soon a publisher came calling promising her fame and to sell the books in stores worldwide.
Being a thoroughly modern Maiden she politely declined.  Self published her book, the tools were all online.
And now her books are despatched far and wide bought on the worldwide web.
She has admirers who call at her door, requesting her hand in marriage.
The Thoroughly Modern Maiden politely declines for now she's happy with her choice living in the glade.
She's happy with the lot she has and doesn't need to be saved