Xanadu; quintessence of the words,
Of beauty to our ears.
Not love of mind nor fanciful sight,
Nor tenacity of breath of those who might,
Speak provocation of effusive tears.

Diversification of those whose diction,
Expansion was sought imploringly,
Displayed meek thirst,
For knowledge first;
They’ll be blessedly beset linguistically.

Longing rills of liquefied utterance,
Reverberating waves aplenty,
Bellowing whispers loud,
Heard from within a shroud,
Giving rise to a barrel never empty.

Roaring murmurs of ripples in thousands
Cascading to oceans below,
A fast falling downward demise,
Sounding white truth and that of black lies,
Of onomatopoeic H2O.

Not stringent is the string of letters,
Lax are the words to be strung.
Not sequentially,
But dulcetly,
Outward beauty will be rung.

With a patterned strike using one’s cerebella Mallet
On the gong of one’s cerebral stock,
Eloquence imbues,
The mind your ears use,
Curtailing the perpetual tick tock – tick tock.

Facile masks circle that face,
Consuming as they revolve.
Filched is elation,
Taken is creation.
Yet knowing the inevitable resolve.