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.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC
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.
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