What sort of corrupt poetry is this
That my heart be wrested from my mind
By a pallid satellite so designed
That in its earthly grip, does slip?
Year upon year, through the inebriate sky and o'er our wits
In its pale perception, its slight deception, the learnéd landscape marks gentle direction
over my kind,
makes men marvel at the stars,
herself revelling
in lieu of facts and our hearts,
No object of desire, no affection to transpire
Unmoved by whims or wretched ire
Upon first reflection, a tether of discretion
That a prayer would mention,
baseless, cherished isolation,
And yet she in her lunar bliss,
forgotten and remiss
Looked into my life,
The whole span of ten nights
And neglecting the pen
I remembered exploration
And tentative love,
That half a century
Has deplored -
An ignored beauty
And humanity's secret door
Copyright ©️ David Bosworth 2026
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 6:15 PM UTC
What sort of corrupt poetry is this
That my heart be wrested from my mind
By a pallid satellite so designed
That in its earthly grip, does slip?
Year upon year, through the inebriate sky and o'er our wits
In its pale perception, its slight deception, the learnéd landscape marks gentle direction
over my kind,
makes men marvel at the stars,
herself revelling
in lieu of facts and our hearts,
No object of desire, no affection to transpire
Unmoved by whims or wretched ire
Upon first reflection, a tether of discretion
That a prayer would mention,
baseless, cherished isolation,
And yet she in her lunar bliss,
forgotten and remiss
Looked into my life,
The whole span of ten nights
And neglecting the pen
I remembered exploration
And tentative love,
That half a century
Has deplored -
An ignored beauty
And humanity's secret door
Copyright ©️ David Bosworth 2026
Request permission to use this poem