How to fill this book
Of Poe and ravens
This is heaven and hell
Maybe Milton
Some of it even sings Dylan
Not Bob, but, Thomas
How do I make myself known
Among all the full moons
And solar eclipses
Written in metaphors
So pure and ruined
That make my mind
Seeth with spinal fluid
That spills out secrets
That will never be appreciated by my gorgeous girl
Oh, my art! It is with you
In death and diseased simile
In love and happiness' alliteration
A couple of complex images are mine
But, the poetess is you
Who understands my warped words about water
Out of whack and lacking space and rain
Everyone wants space
Everyone wants poems on rain, at the same time
Muses and amusing schmucks! They want a trucker and poetess too
And Lincoln to come back alive
Tell the rightful truth
Or loose a tooth or a flower
With deep protected roots
From where an idea
Penetrated the sky
Protruding into the sky
Penumbras fall from the sky
The shadow falls as the book shows the life
Smile my friend
Till the end
My friend.