"flatterings" poems
Though her beauty's compelling
do not think of her beauty,
do not think of her shape,
do not think of her smiles.
For they are all deception.
Do not be lust at her gentle staring,
do not be lust in her seductive apparel,
do not be enspelled in her flatterings,
for they are all deception.
Never think of her movement,
never think of her whispers,
never imagine the aura of her presence
For they are all Deception.
Never think of her complexion so bright,
gaze not into her charming eyes
lest you be ensnared,
do not lust after her **** lips,
for they are all Deception.
Do not think of her at all!
do not think of her!
Do not love her
believe not in her fake feelings,
she cannever be yours
yes she cannever be yours.
For to another she belongs
she cannever be your.
Do not think of her at all!
Do not think of her.
for she cannever be yours!
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 11:07 AM UTC
Fake unary
Falling under
Flatterings ugliness
Frothy usury
Forgoing unity
For use
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
Out into the great great land of West,
a lad met a lady all dressed up in red.
"Ahoy now wait. Don't scurry away.
Take my hand and let me guide thy way."
She stopped short, startled in dismay.
"Now young lad, don't step beyond your grace.
I can do no such gest. It is best to tread alone this way."
The young scout, deaf to refusals at hand,
stepped closer, till she could feel that he was indeed a man.
"I'm no boy thou can fan away.
I give no flatterings to Love. Thou shalt follow me
till we both age or die young with disgrace"
With no buzz she followed his trace.
Her long red dress turned maroon with age.
Walk and walk, be sure to sing not to buzz.
"I'm no bee but a bird in a cage.
I have no freedom, I have no will.
I have no courage, no bravery.
The strength I took to trim my hair,
and wear hardy shoes and wander the woods,
is all gone in one moment's gloom.
Be it joy in the crooked man's eye.
Be is happiness woven into a ring.
Be it Time that will sew the wounds again,
and the scar, I will cherish till my dying day."
Like a hymn she would hum this tune.
Like Fate, he would carry her till he could
put her down and whisper gently and softly,
"Now my bird, we have come to a halt.
I see no light beyond the horizon. Thou made me believe
in such foolish games. I've danced to your tune.
Thou shalt sing no more, for I have no rythm in me.
Freedom is what I can give. Let Age carry you alone,
whilst it will let me sleep."
The bee in a bird's role could finally see,
The blossoms, soft and weak
are her residence,
not a weary man's cave with no sheets.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 9:47 AM UTC