O verily how hard it is sometimes
The proper words of beautiness to find
‘Texpress that what is gnarling on your heart
Threatening to tear it ‘way apart
If being able not from inner chest
To fetch the words th’ occasion fitting best
For burden this is oft of too much weight
To let you easily aspire to th’ utmost height
And soar there fretting not about the sun
To melt you waxen wings; o there is none
From brethren of mine who wouldn’t mind
To spend a day or two in aimless grind
With nothing to express or on his soul
Swelling and reclaiming form or mould
To ready be at once to be dispatched
And to rebirth upon a paper’s batch
‘Tis better not to live then, nor indeed
To squander your potential on vile screed

The snowfalls always seemed to me
To be the falling of le ciel
And snowflakes simply are
The harbingers of times to come
What come to earth to hail
The advent new of Newborns
To the earth that borne through
Pain and toil and blood and then
Umbilical cord are torn and lost
That mystical connection till rebirth
That’ll be unknown to him, and dearth
Of knowing proper place innate to the
Inane entity before the being of existence
Before gaining a shell to thereafter fledge
And plunge again into unknown
To then again emerge amidst the toll of it

I stand in front of a window
With a darkness without and within
Watching snowflakes falling together
In this descent creating or rather combining
Into a snowfall that every time it befalls
For me to behold it and with the inner eye
To hold it, I can’t help but only permit
Myself to feel a state of heaven bliss
Especially when booted feet of mine create A crisp
Of snow under theirs membrane sole,
This crunch with such a pleasure fills the soul
Of every one who knows what it is like
To take a pleasant winter roaming hike

Without a cup of tea with lemon I
Wouldn’t even dare in conscious fair to try
To roam throughout the day and Be
a very gay and pleasant company
Without fragrance this and hue or shade
Of lemon cake located on the plate

To everyone is known
this special state of mind,
When no sleep dons upon you,
No matter how you try,
No slumber is bestowed on,
No reveries to find
In numberless attempts
To sandman’s coach descry

You tumble and you wamble
Upon you untucked bed,
You counting all the mammals
What’s known on earth to dwell
You’re changing disposition
Of your unresting head
While something does inside you
Begin in size to swell

When blanket is too hot now,
Without it - to cold
And nothing is in order
Amidst your swarming thoughts,
When everything you ponder
On is slipping of its hold,
When every link of system
Untying  of its knot

When there’s no salvation
To this horrendous plight
And everything on earth to you
Is not at all all-right
When ‘tseems to be no ending
To this enduring night
One wink and Oh... tremendous;
Behold a new daylight

What is the memory but a motley quilt,
With patches stitched together,
But some detached from there as if Inappropriate
To the purpose of alleviating in the period
Of grief and sorrow, which are so often
Cause a day to be a hue darker than it is,
The people to be meaner than they are
And events to go not in the way they
Ostensibly  
Are supposed to go;
To leave only warm colors suffused with
Fragrance of a mead, the ripple of a brook,
The rustling of a fallen foliage would be
Perfect; yeah, for sure, but to remember
Darker relict of the days of yore
Sometimes is far more better than
Be in the pinky glasses of a false perception;
To see not only in the black or white
But in the gray and green and red and
Purple
To see the life in its full spectrum of a
Motley quilt to warm on freezing
Days or to emit the tears to facilitate
The soul’s ordeal to thereafter meet
The day with shiny watery eyes and
Unburden as if a weightless heart