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’
Written 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.
Closure for a wound that's been open for far too long. Peace
Enjoy the south Oshawa filth willow in pity where you belong. Apparently I can be a ****...
— The End —