Long before daybreak
With eyelids so heavy
Beseeching, let me sleep!
Never-ending, indefatigable thoughts
In waves, each more belligerent
Than its foregone,
Sang of tempestuous oceans
Of Winters of long-lasting darkness.
A bewail
- of bleakness -
For souls convoluted amongst alb foam.

To frank such thoughts
Dry them underneath moonlight
Obviate nefarious whims.
To coerce the ways of rational kin,
Eradicate rapt, impetuous
Combustions fired by
The cholera of heathens.

With herb and candle, enthrall,
With hammer and anvil, fashion!

Worming out the Eye of Dystopia
I wage war,
Quill in shivering fingers
- si vis pacem
  para bellum.

Once an Elephant was in great need to ***
So towards the restroom he made his flee
But the Elephant did not know he walked to his doom

For as soon as the got into the room
His nose got stuck into the slammed door
     It resembled a schroom

So the Elephant cried for help
     For help did he cried
But no soul would come to help
None would believe nothin’ but his demise.

Thus in despair he looked through the window
But to his utmost strike of mischance
He saw a view most rare
     All had been covered in dough

So the Elephant pulled and pulled
     For pulling was all he could do
And he pulled so much
     And so much he pulled

His nose no longer withstood.

In its place the Elephant saw
His nose was covered in gunk
But beware, beware
     For the Elephant bewared too,
That right there under all that gunk
No nose stood

It was something rather knew

Something like a trunk.

heated skin of July
warm, soft, fuzzy, tender
fondled by sun rays
reminds me
the touch a guy
once gave me in splendor
it ignited me in blaze

Alone she goes in the woods
- dark robes covering her womanhood -
No other thoughts shaping her angular face
But the will to burn Autumn leaves.

A fire set on the auburn ground
- a muddy dough of death -
Begs her coming as flame rise high
And smoke signals the way.

No tears no loud cries
No regrets nor fears
The wish to burn away her past
Stronger than the waving of spears.

Poetry is a
    garden of wild
    flowers
I've yet come to
    admire