Visual guild. As we consume thy perceptions.

Imagine reality. As we resume our intentions.

Let here ye sign signature of rose flower oaths.

Everlasting with hope. For we shall last for eternity.

Foreseen malice of Shiresham Retreat.

As thou ancestors betrothed in the garden.

-A Poem By Kev Chino’

Everytime something happy happens,
I find myself worrying about
What might happen next.

For example, twas an early day,
Writing ******* poetry with words like "Twas" "Was" "is" or "as"
Things seemed to be deemed good
For at least a week or two.

Low and behold,
The wound.
The inevitable part of life that Happens when everything
Is goin' good.

So twas' the night before the wound,
A jaded child lay
Unaware of the doom.

Santa stood by the fire
With a pipe in his teeth
With smoke in the air
Circling him like a wreath

Clement Clarke Moore
Said this so long ago
But, what kind of pipe
I'm sure you don't know

Santa, a smoker
That's nothing new
If you remember the poem
Then you'll know it's true

The pipe, oh so slender
A small bowl at the end
A slight whisper of smoke
In the air, it would send

It arched to the floor
To the end of his beard
If it ever got close
Then his beard would be seared

The tobacco he smoked
Was a Turkish fine blend
With cloves and some nutmeg
Just how much, would depend

Was he giving out presents
Or sitting down by a fire
That determined just what
He would put in his briar

The pipe had a name
It was a Churchwarden pipe
Made of briar so old
A now long extinct type

Red Man tobacco
Some days he'd switch
But, not very often
It made his nose itch

The pipe is a classic
It shows Santa had style
Though it had a small bowl
It would last him a while

He could make rings appear
And they would circle his head
Or he'd just taste the spice
And form a small cloud instead

A Churchwarden pipe
Can be smoked by so few
It's a long way to draw
It's a tough thing to do

The scent that it leaves
Is of burnt spices and pear
And if you should smell it
You know Santa was there

So, this Christmas instead
Make it your pre bedtime goal
To leave out some OHM Turkish
To replenish his bowl

My poems are sad, yet they make me glad, they bring me joy. I mock you and your actions and it makes me content, with how you left. Broken down, in my weakest state you sent me the pictures, revealed your true face. Blame myself, but truly it's you, wish for the best for the pair of you.