Euphoric Sunday morning,
      fluff blissful, feathery pillows -
         still resonating the
               scent of night
        beyond supernova's
             transcendent certainty,
   whence gods were called
       upon by name,
            reverberating
               over
                   and over
                        again

The irony of writing poetry,
  when life's a comic book...

The only cure for mood poisoning,
             is writing more poetry.

Tell me the truth,

     if only in a whisper

of unassuming promises,

instincts have waned

    on many a dawning,

   of impromptu desperation

     neath longing's plaintive misery*


       tell me a lie, it'll still suffice,

        as midnight fast approaches mourning's daylight

there's a picture perfect

   place in mind's presence

amidst an unraveling sunrise,

   where serenity is

   distinguished midst

     peaceful tranquility &

the essence of an expansive heart,

   scrawled 'pon clear azure skies

whilst blissed souls unfurl in poetry,

come, share a  hot cuppa grandeur's

       affirmation with me,

             as we relish sublime rapture

A swashbuckler
who sharpened
    his sword
upon unkind
     poetic words

Your lackadaisical
       apathy towards
    life's intention
        could melt the sun

Hopelessly entranced
      by the dance of poetry,
              and vice versa