Incendiary asperity:
The world's existentiality
Agony, the Merciless & Mercenary
Scourging me entirely.

The Angst of the Aeons
Are the pedigree, the genealogy, the history borne to emancipate Me as a Vessel of Sanctity
For the valiant souls
Are the souls of transcendence, who revere in remembrance
The Amour of the Yore

My Vestibule Heart
Expands, contracts, being consecrated demands just as
Starry-Wombed the Cosmos, we
Must grow, burgeon through our learning & yearning, deserving & pining for the Promise of Morrow
For we were not formed
To wallow in sorrow.

As I gaze to the heavens
O, ***** and Gomorrah I remember
The Wife of Lot looks back forever: emblazoned as a Petrified December,
Then Fire & Sulphur descended, mankind nearly ended;
What is the lesson?
Of faith we are descendants.

Why do you
Roil my ravaged and brutally savaged soul?
Must bitterness be the wage for days spent having prayed
On my knees, for armistice, by The Empyrean One’s decree?

Though I have fallen,
I shall rise up
For the Fate’s Auric Visage radiates light upon the leaven,
Dost ferment the flesh dominating mine spirit.
Hearkening to
The susurrus of the Sovereign of Songbird’s Sacrosanct Love.

Let the Ethereal Tides of Time
Bathe me in baptismal & divine tribulation, trial
For a writhing while,
Sacrality is a war,
The Primal Instinct’s Immemorial Diminuendo.

Where has fake paradise of the Sylvan Shine
Those forested, emerald Eyes
That glisten in mine dreams gone?
Your visage twas my divine.

Though I am forlorn,
The Cosmo-Plexus of Empyreal Love hath sworn
To the Days of Yore
That I shall soar once more.

To my Enfettered Soul,
Excelsior.

.
As his words flow like honey onto the page
with a nod of approval from a linguistic sage.
Long gone are the days when a woman's plays
would look at the poet with a romantic gaze.

His sad verse no longer makes her cry,
his love poems fail to lift her heart to fly.
Her attention wanders like a lonely voice
away from sanctuary, towards more choice.

And as his pen drifts across a blank page
he remembers the ladies, being centre stage,
the looks of adoration in a beautiful face,
deep pools of experience for his art to embrace.

Melancholic he dips his pen again and tries,
imagination musing her gorgeous ****** eyes.
But the words won't flow, so defeated he cries,
and arranges poets tears into convenient lies.


© Pagan Paul (2017/18)