Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Antara sheddad a man of letter,
                       Born to suffer and to write,
For worse or for  better,
                        He thought he was doing right.

Antara found himself in a pickle
                        Over a mighty promise,
His love went, although fickle,
                        From a melody, to a hiss.

Antara voiced his mind,
                       A lustful mouthy dirt,
Mindful he might find
                       Joy in agony and hurt.

Antara wrote for a nickel,
                       Not to expect a dime,
Clever and whimsical
                        With a rhythm and a rhyme.

Antara wrote a little and knew
                        His audience expected a lot,
He went cold on the few
                         And on the rest went hot.

Antara wept and laid down tall,
                      Now out of breath
His dying words call
                      For life and for death.

Antara lived in rumpus
                      No home, no rest, no treat
They named after him a campus
                      A library and a street.

Antara Sheddad lived a helot,
                      Unfed on Obedience,
A heart of a zealot,
                       And an ill-fortune expedience.
We have just spoken our love,
But more still remains, let for the morrow
The night is long, and above,
The moon kind, but narrow
Too close tonight even closer
Than singing to a sparrow,
Together we will stand even longer
If not we will die with the same arrow,
Thus, we have chosen to be, nor yet
Feel any kind of sorrow.
Pull my doors or push
It’s a hard row to ***,
While loving around the bush
Is a pain for me you know!
Ah! If only can
Earth,
         Be my
                        Sepulcher.
Another tomb
Never thought of
Must only
              Be,
                       Oblivion.

— The End —