To atone is to tune,
your soul's acoustic hole.
It's to loose it and be a loon
until, intoning spawns a hole.

A spartan room is an ****
for one whose toes
never follow chronology
and never miss the woes.

Eating the fruit of knowledge
bought accolades at my foot,
I have heavens to acknowledge
but I'm aging in rummage.

I smolder in pain,
as gratefulness grate.
I repulse my thoughts
as they stab me in vain.

A suave lily appalls
dirt on it's debris;
like a reclusive lady
who hates ghoulish paparazzi.

I cipher in poetry
outlets hard to decipher;
Like pottery,
it calls for practice not paltry.