"shrift" poems
Thrift Shop Confessional
Old carts squeak down re-sale aisles
"One of," "two of,"
Sometimes "three of" items
Tempting treasure-sifting shoppers,
Bargain-needing families,
Women seeking up-brand names at low-brand prices...
Our wives, followed by their husbands,
Acquiescent, but quiescently seeking
Seeking a thrift shop oasis.
A cast-off dining set beckons,
Sturdy enough, if a little battered,
To make us solemnly content to wait
Carted clothing trundling
Off to fitting rooms.
He shuffled up with a foolish grin.
"I think I'll join this convocation of
Waiting gentlemen.
My wife is a shopper...
She'll close the place down."
I moved a chair and gave some space;
Strangers become brothers in this place.
Five minutes on,
I knew he was a vet:
Army, Vietnam Nam...
"I don't like to think about it,"
Cleared his throat,
"Never can forget."
I turned to look at him.
"A little girl came running,
With her hand behind her back.
She only stood this high," he said,
And showed me with his palm her height,
"They carried grenades that way...
All of 'em...couldn't tell which ones...
Sergeant told us, 'Don't ever check...just shoot.'"
The voice trailed off....
I sat sweating in a thrift store,
Captive of my own politeness,
Half a century,
Half a planet,
Transported in his words
into a soldier's Hell.
"So I shot...
Nothing else to do."
Silence then.
A total stranger staggering
under the weight of having
Murdered his Albatross....
Of having carried this thing,
This memory,
Inside him all these years,
Of finding me,
The unsuspecting thrift shop guest
Who'd listen to his lonely tale,
Perhaps so he could earn some rest....
I, his unwitting Confessor,
Uncertain what to say,
Certain something must be said...
Certain nothing could be said...
Sat dumb, but understanding
The wisdom of confessional dividers,
The private comfort of two booths
Where prayerful exchanges
Intersperse uncertain silences,
Present in the overhanging need:
Demanding sorrowful returns,
Impending memories of sorrows...
And lonely trudgings home....
(Connections with Fr. Laurence's "Riddling confession finds but short shrift," in Romeo & Juliet, and Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner")
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
Unfolding into itself, inviolable
in prosaic self-penetration,
a boundless repertoire
of shape yearns forth surreptitiously
from inscrutable amniotes to claim
time as its own:
Here a thicket
of sycamores, there a baldaquin
of pinnate branches, yonder
a periphery of marigolds, below
a cacophony of hyraxes, above
the corpuscle of a lynx, the mid-flight
jink of a darting swift and moribund
crawl of a mollusk;
Hymenoptera coaxing
their haploid broods into teeming
life as a cell of the swarm
and viviparous apes cajoling
suckling chimerae at the fathomless
fountainhead of a rosy breast;
Higher still,
Cirrus cephalopods traversing
the trench of sky, dandelions
hitch-hiking the drift of a barren plains'
wavering hum on cockchafers'
forewings and a turbine's
bombinating pulse, the chattering
of roots ravenous for depth --
Jittering bangtails the hallowed echoes
of lascivious manes --
inchoate sprout-hood the daedal
nonage of towering evergreens --
the plaintive shrift of elegiac
redbreasts a goad to silent elation --
A likeness unlike
(vocabularies of vertiginous blinds)
(the eyes of ignorance closing)
(the mouth of the mystery)
that spurns the truth of tongues
is nature naturing.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
When I said “I love you,” I lied
with a drifting and dreamy head
across the velvety sea
I imagined
resting and narrowly defined
in the nakedness
at the edge of your lap.
I have a history
of over-indulging
mixed-up senses.
I tasted the sight
of a gently curved nose.
I caressed the scent
of a lightly perfumed neck.
I’ll speak but not hear again
of the salty, savory, sweetness;
all bitterness has gone.
It’s not that I binged
so much as feasted
after a prolonged period
of self-deprivation.
And now I’m caught
between two urges:
To shave, to shear, to no longer
shabbily make shrift;
Or to revel
in the sloppy temptation
of recalling you.
Powerless I'll watch
the dissembling
tomorrow makes.
Before it comes, whisper-soft,
I repeat my mistake,
and unreliably say,
“I loved you.”
Oct 29, 2010
Oct 29, 2010 at 8:27 AM UTC
Stage One begins the fun;
First sips reveal the bitter
Blast of hops and alcohol.
BAC is point oh-three, which reads as
"Confident & Daring."
Attention Span and
Flesh are flushed
In dual ways,
(Please catch my drift.
Euphoric people, still
May have a need for shrift.)
Sometimes such things are said or done
That later are not wished.
Judgment begins to slide
On entry of Stage Two.
A numbness in the tongue,
A blurring of the eyes,
Which do not yet see two.
Sometimes as low as point oh-nine BAC,
"Excitement" names the awkward teetering
Between slow thought and sleepiness.
Stumbled response takes coordination,
But the drinker cannot see his weaviness.
Stage Three arrives at point one-eight
And takes the name "Confusion."
Staggered is the walk, and one can sit
And feel the moving of the world.
The maudlin lover here appears,
Replaced by jealous hate that burns
Or bursts in untoward rage that disappears
In an instant's instant, only to return.
Stage Four is Cousin Stupor,
Threshhold BAC is point two-five.
The drinker turns into a Turtle,
Unmoving, Unaware, but still alive,
He cannot stand nor walk,
May drown upon his *****
And if he lies, should do so on his side,
Though he cannot without assistance
From a brother or a bride.
Stage Five, Fra Coma, may start at point three-five,
Cool skin, slow breath, heart beat, (just barely),
Asleep he may appear, or dead,
As Death stands near.
Stage Six occurs at BAC point five,
Bar Tender Death moves on
To find someone Alive.
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 2:36 PM UTC
The driven accent of
The orison which
Suffering seraphim cajole
Yields to time and
Time is period
Till judgement breaks
And those lyrics remit
A weeping invocation of
Eternities requiem
Fore all beauty is a
Mirage to sordid souls
And graces respite is
Found in paradise;
O' death- the master juror
Resounding the short-shrift of
Heavens immortal scripture
Amidst earthly violence
Singing humanities
Everlasting hymn.
ELEETE J MUIR
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
She is the living embodiment of the cliché,
The song where the male sub-lead
Returns from some second shift, some third drink
To find she has gone, leaving some scrap-paper note,
Hastily scribbled and wholly incomplete,
Some variation upon Don’t try and find me,
And so she is suitably unfound herself,
As she has given great thought to her froms,
But rather short shrift to her tos,
Finding herself north of the Thruway,
Looking for somewhere to spend the night
(The twin motors of adrenaline and anxiety running on fumes)
Happening upon, as if almost by some beneficent magic,
A Travelodge bordered by an expanse of cornfield
(Long since gone to seed, the stalks bowed and spent,
Waiting for the patently overdue cob harvester)
And after she is checked in and somewhat unpacked
(The bored, bemused woman who slumps about the front desk
Mercifully sparing with the small talk)
The skies, which had been late-October slate blur-gray,
Slightly malevolent but only implicit in their threats,
Open up in a cold and unwelcome drizzle,
And, whys and wherefores being things for a later date,
She runs outside and begins dancing in the parking lot,
Unseen and unremarked upon,
And even though the rain is cold, soaking, grim in portent
(The forecast dourly noting the possibility of wet snow,
Nattering that accumulation is possible at higher elevations.)
She is seemingly unaware and unconcerned
As to the upshot of this drenching,
Any whispers of the two or three other occupants of the motel,
Any judgments passed upon her mad danse pour un,
As she has passed beyond any notion of admonition.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
Who knocks up the knockerupper
who knocks us up fer work,
four hours after supper
that drives a man berserk!
three raps 'pon th' windowpane
fer early morning shift
hewin coyl 'neath mile o' soil
fer ten bob n short shrift.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 10:40 AM UTC
I would have posited longings ago
this short-shrift to-do over such a curt list undone
was inconceivable
outside
the pages of deceptively practiced perceptions
published in a pop-up book smirk,
or beyond
the canary-yellow frames of a cartoonish
distortion relishing its mired but spongy giggles
A
Been-here-all-along,
you’ve-never-bothered-to-look
lake sleeps implacably
at the bottom of an irascible ocean
Be
Whatever it may,
you can’t deny the wantonly
watted life teeming pretty as it pleases,
untroubled by a hollow-core belief
or the extremest demands of our foul temper
See
How I could have,
if I’d only swallowed
those bubbled-up blurts
ring-wronging the tip of my wriggling tongue,
never been audibly
landed by one alluringly barbed certainty
There are supine bodies—
stagnant, quicksilver pure—
no material ship navigates
and no intentional intruder can swim
without
emerging atypically
unsettled by the caustic exposure
Tread lithely
when you go;
this shoreline bites.
Its clustered rocks will snap shut around you
after digging in below you with a protruding toe,
and its carmine stalks will sting you
as they writhe past you
to mime a part-less goodbye
Here be where
the monstrous cold seeps
and a hellish hot vents
in compliance with this centuries-old complaint:
too-short was the time we wept
for those wiggly wonders
we could have kept
if we’d only octopus-arm embraced
the inevitability of their bandy-legged escape
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 8:02 AM UTC
I sent your gift through soap and suds
Looks battered and short shrift
The smile on your face
The sureness of your grace
While I was throwing duds
I dropped a pendant, a symbol of trust
Still pondering where it might have went
You seem disappointed
Though not afflicted
As I sat there and cussed
I broke a picture frame, Shattered the glass
As I hid away, and in you came
A long pause and awe
Your open-wide jaw
I felt like such a *******
You take pity on me nonetheless and shrug it off
You say, “It’s okay” As others stand around to scoff
While you relieve the distress of my dismay
What a person, so loving
That is why I hold them so close
Everyone else, pushing and shoving
When I was the one you chose
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 8:44 PM UTC
It started in the night and continued through the day. The wish to find my running shoes and throw it all away. To head towards the setting light in search of a familiar face. Only stopping for a moment to check if my shoes were truly laced. Finding only that my soul continues to wear with every passionate stride. Falling apart to the rhythmic concrete as my laces became untied. Reaffirming my life’s simple intent with every double knot. To find the life my days and nights had truly ever sought. So with tightened lace and replaced tongue, I bandage my blisters and refill my lungs. Hoping their overuse will lead me away, towards life greatest intent found in my nights and days. And as my blisters bleed again and my soul starts to rip, my lungs begin to give and my tongue finally slips. The winding road roughens and the weather begins to shift, as the distance of my journey becomes my life’s greatest shrift. Persevering for the days and nights that I simply would not act, and would only settle willingly on my life's beautiful abstract. And so I struggle through the pain in search of my perfect pace, which could lead me to my destination and the life I seem to chase. But the journey itself does not begin until I abandon my old ruse, and replace them with the souls of my used running shoes.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 1:42 PM UTC
Torrents of wind, strewn upon man and beast
an irradiant moment terses through the veins
howls bewilderment speculates,
attempting to overthrow the instant,
home is a short shrift distance
her only resonance is a leitmotif
that hail the late seasons repentance.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
Thy mother's bounty bundled in thy swaddling
Took up the cry to capture mine own craft,
And taking arms, thou plundered of my coddling;
Enslaved, I toil to serve upon thy raft.
Thy word is law, thy captaincy commanding,
I sleep not lest I miss my master's call;
Thy will is served, thy drudgery demanding,
Through foul and fair I weather all thy squall.
Thy institution has me fear the looming
Of pirate vessels, renowned for their shrift,
Majestic sails billowed in handsome pluming,
Looting thy spoils and setting me adrift.
Surrendered now unto thy vasty sea,
I dread the day thy heart will mutiny.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
Alias indomitable invincible
Donald John Trump oozes wrath
inexorably plunging every species
of life toward apocalyptic warpath
mercilessly threatentens world
wide web promising bloodbath
validating ex post facto commander
in chief as nonpareil sociopath
hence... this call to arms gives run
for money challenging any psychopath
lest inevitable according to dead
reckoning prediction of
wisest sages calculated math.
Thus one poetic footsoldier doth broadcast
dire straits emergency, and inveigh
grassroots action mandatory meaning
registered voters must
cast ballot per se
else planet Earth will...
burn thermonuclear gray
rendering oblate spheroid
uninhabitable, I daresay
if bleak forecast father time doth delay
global warming would outweigh
former worst case nihilistic scenario,
nonetheless Gaia will serve
as repurposed ashtray,
whereby inextinguishable fiery storms
approximating calculus of doomsday
nsync with intolerable weather forecasts
if complacency rides roughshod field day
defying lack of immunization oy vey
against opportunistic unfamiliar organisms
viral and bacterial agent provocateurs
microscopic gangbusters
nothing could allay
winning scrimmage play
thinning overpopulation whereby
scavengers make short shrift
plethora once living flotsam and jetsam
perhaps requiring rotting, putrefying,
goods put on layaway
(type of foragers -
reference https://www.google.com/search?
client=safari&channel=mac_bm&ei=
KECaXe_UA6SO5wLh-7gY&q=list+
examples+of+scavengers&oq=list+types+
of+scavengers&gs_l=psy-ab.1.0.0i22i30.
58737.70074..70997...0.4..0.223.1875.
21j2j1......0....1..gws-wiz.......
0i71j0i273j0j0i131j0i67j33i22i29i30.
wnDI0kLrKWM).
now ye might hashtag me chicken little
synonymous to Rome burning,
while Nero did fiddle,
perhaps scaremonger i.e. Cassandra
alamist bah bing away, a realist foaming
at figurative mouth with spittle,
would you believe cautious optimist,
who presents prediction,
while this poem heed whittle.
Oct 6, 2019
Oct 6, 2019 at 5:18 PM UTC
I saw the bright steel. It leapt from your lips.
Madness come tempted, black, angry, eclipse.
Once we long courses, abounding hardships,
Challenged together; no thought to call quits.
Then came war, sparing
No knife, not caring.
Weapons used knowing
Hate they were growing.
Now The Blade launched.
Locked target, unstaunched.
Why would my death cause
You cheer, your applause?
Fierce hatred burning, your
soul: scorched dune land.
Splaying, filleting at prayer's demand,
The Blade, a weapon convention won't use,
Hot steel released to new heights of abuse.
Mean dark cold ore pulled from lowest of rungs,
Loosed screaming weapon, with all of your lungs.
I sob and I puke, my chest you incise,
Ribbed wall tore open, my heart you excise.
Betrayed and agape,
a lie, said as true,
Avulsion of flesh
you cannot undue.
You dare speak of truth,
while feasting on gore,
Gorging on heart's flesh
still lusting for more?
Gnawing and biting,
perfumed in blood, hot,
Savoring my fear,
your reeking soul's rot.
Biting and chewing,
the taste, the sweet gift
Love ended proving.
This pain, you call shrift?
Colors of freedom,
Speak my vein's plight,
Face red, soon turns white,
'Till blue spells goodnight.
Eternal the rest,
That's destiny best.
I sleep not so blessed,
Your teeth in my chest.
You claim it's okay,
it was not from hate,
Tears shed for me
just carnage's
playmate.
Ruby sobs
marking
the cheeks
they striate
Fearful
in knowing,
in death I
await.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 2:23 PM UTC
Yes, what tales of non romance,
In some stranger's dance,
Some women get love's short shrift,
Not so lucky, get my drift,
It's called love and catastrophes,
Spare me the drama mamas, please!
(And they're supposed to be men, prithee!!)
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 12:57 AM UTC
I saw a turkey circling, high above Manhattan
his bronze and copper feathers ripped in the sun,
and it looked like it was having an awful lot of fun.
He looked proud, in those clouds—majestic and delicious,
I could picture him sprawled out, on our Thanksgiving dishes.
Then I thought, chastisingly, “Wow, in a way, that’s kind of vicious.”
I opened the glass doors—we were sitting on the sky-high terrace.
I thought I’d better check—so I wouldn’t later be embarrassed.
I called Karen (Lisa’s Mom), “You already got a turkey to prepare us?”
She was hand making apple and cherry pies, lining crust in the pans
“You bet!” She called, “One's dressed-up—and a honey-baked ham!”
Closing the door, I yelled, through cupped hands, “Fly on Turkey—DO NOT LAND!”
.
.
Songs for this:
It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year - Shrift remix by Andy Williams and Shrift
One Day More by Les Misérables Original London Cast Ensemble
.
I made this year's Christmas playlist!
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_34.mp3
Nov 25, 2024
Nov 25, 2024 at 5:23 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
They’re actin’ as if
The poor don’t exist
But that’s a myth
That we’re livin’ with
The poor are expanding
But they aren’t commanding
The attention they should
And that can’t be good
The rich are getting richer
While the poor get poorer
Because some people have
A built-in ignorer
A risin’ boat lifts
Those who are adriftt
But they’re actin’ as if
A job is a gift
No wonder we’re miffed
We’re getting short shrift
And we’re being ignored
So our anger is stored
The rich are getting richer
While the poor get poorer
Because some people have
A built-in ignorer
They’ve got our goad
So if we explode
Then they shoulda knowed
How that would bode
See the rich are getting richer
While the poor get poorer
Because some people have
A built-in ignorer
They’re actin’ as if
We’re not at a cliff
Or adrift on a skiff
And the tide has to shift
Cos we deserve more
Or what’s it all for
Being rich at the core
While ignoring the poor
The rich are getting richer
While the poor get poorer
Because some people have
A built-in ignorer
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016. All rights reserved.
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC
Akkosaka Bhāradvāja--
The brahmin--found the Buddha one day
And railed against him, throwing harsh words
And abusive insults the Teacher's way.
The Buddha calmly said, "Dear brahmin,
Answer, please, my question to you:
You are a guest and your hosts offer food;
If you don't want it, what do you do?"
"I don't accept it," the brahmin answered.
"In that case to whom does the food belong?
To the hosts, no?" asked the Buddha.
"Tell me: am I right or wrong?"
"The offered food belongs to the hosts,
Of course," responded the brahmin surveying
With curiosity each word that
The great Master was wisely saying.
The Buddha said, "Likewise, if you do not
Accept the insults of those who blast you,
Their unwanted "gifts" stay with them,
While you are unscathed; you put it all past you."
The brahmin, moved by the Buddha's words,
Reflected on the meaning and sought
Deeper understanding and wisdom
From all the lessons the Teacher taught.
If others try to hurt you with words,
Give their nasty comments short shrift
By staying unruffled, unperturbed--
By resolutely refusing their "gift."
- by Bob B
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 9:43 AM UTC
His herd trudge in binary directions.
Faceless they march to their fraudulent feed
Opposing the one, their ransom, his seed.
False food disguised as noble inflections.
The truth shrouded from all inspections
With frivolity from who need pay heed.
To words of the one, through him that did bleed
As payment for the herd’s imperfections.
Not for them but for him, the one, the all,
For their actions would tarnish his clean name
Should his creation lay under a pall,
His perfection it would only defame.
When he takes a stand, upon him they call
It is written he’ll win the wicked game.
For many chasing jenny, a short shrift
For lack of atonement for losing tone,
Their restitution shan’t come from that throne.
Their heart’s reticence sends love far adrift.
Truth can mend Lucifer’s damage, the rift
In their hearts instilled by stealth from day one.
To hear the word, the onus is their own.
To hear the truth is to receive its gift.
With wisdom, utilise our time we must.
Escape the herd in their binary trudge.
Basing beliefs on knowledge we can trust
They know to do but continue the drudge.
Heads hung with disgust they’ll return to dust
To dust, they he will adjudge.
The canvas currently clean as satin,
Upon which, with their freedom, they may paint
That which their hearts desire, but not to taint
Or tarnish the words before that Latin.
A bastardisation was that Latin,
Wringing and wrangling till the truth grew faint.
Questions unasked as questioner’s constraint
Set in motion the persistent pattern.
Little with distance between are those eyes
Open and receptive to deviate.
Blindly open and blinkered by the lies
For their daily drudge down the wide road, fate.
No hope for what awaits beyond the fires
When they see will it all be but too late?
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 2:05 PM UTC
Against a fire bridge of sunrise,
Blue smoke still under the pines,
A humming bird clings to a sheet of sky,
Light-sensitive paper wings fragile
As spring ice. The eye, messenger
Of flash and shatter, stumbles on
This sudden angle photo.
The inexplicable takes form,
Arranging itself like a watercolour dawn
Opening in slow motion.
The conspirators of dark and cold
Are given short shrift in the moment
The world’s heart stops, touched
By the quick wing beat of April flight.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 4:36 AM UTC
If the thrill of the hunt sets you a'flame
I long to be the man to play your game
But I'm not a beast to be satisfied with a bone
No "here's a scrap" now go on alone
For me, it's your divine feminine I pursue
The gods felt like showing off when they crafted you
Your sense, so dark, so deep, is what I'll follow
Don't short-shrift my time and make my efforts hollow
I'm in need of a feast - your body, your mind
My cravings won't end with wrinkled sheets and a bottle of wine.
Your flesh on my tongue is what I will savor
I'll eat you alive, if you'll return the favor.
I want to devour you whole
Your spirit, your soul
And once I've stripped you down to your core,
Only then, my dear, will we start the chase once more.
Jan 11, 2020
Jan 11, 2020 at 10:34 PM UTC
In order to feel that,
one must eschew dog
in favour of cat food,
install a ski lift,
give short change and
shorter shrift,
paint palindromes
torch light garden gnomes
take out pay day loans
and skip town.
It surely follows on that
when the day has gone
the night appears,
and owls eyes scan the
fields for mice.
I have nine lives
used up one
and twice I've nearly split
from number two,
it's the catgut or rotgut
or the garden hut for me
where no one sees the
madness in my eyes,
there's only reflected light
in these cats eyes
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
As always when in the initial throes
of writing what I strive to concoct viz
pièce de ré·sis·tance,
which grandiose whim fizz
hills with utter futility, nonetheless this
nondescript husband under
scores comment, while pulling his
grizzled hair of chinny chin chin,
and emphasizing that mine
literary effort ain't no ****
whether expressing an insatiable hunger
for factual national world events,
weird news i.e. geico liz
hard eats dog,
(who swallowed homework) quiz
sic hull varying from opinion/editorial,
geopolitical related or showbiz,
but breathe deep, while setting loose
quiet riot of ideas,
which profuse accursed
process usually incorporates an overwhelming
growing exponentially cerebral burst
whereat impossible task
looms large, asper how to
zero on most agreeable needling
threadbare notion to come first
amidst the plethora of rampant analogous
to horde of infants
clamoring tubby nursed
bajillion ideas touting joyfulness
(re: l'chaim), or...mine
envisioned sorrowfully immersed
demise as select small group
of family and friends accompany
glassy transparent hearst
(which...shh... keep on the Q.T.
as figuratively utter by pursed
lips), of course no corps
(habeas corpus cited for no reason),
but liver worst
poisoning wrought unexpected demise,
AND cremation (in a free nation)
means body double
coffin before your eyes
doppelganger paid in blood
money and french fries
(duet to a solo salt craving) no lies,
hence an none nee moose penniless chap dies
in short shrift within schema of mortal guise
ashes scattered all points on the compass
one bitcoin player in the blockchain of life wise
lee subsumed within world
wide web, this fate hain't no surprize!
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 1:51 PM UTC
======================================================
I miss when you're gone, I wish you always stay
Im falling in love with you i guess you could say
Little worldly mind of mine shall make it a holiday
I think about all the things that you'll miss
Dream, until God burn Nature with a kiss
Like watching me walk down the aisle thus
giving your first grandchild a morning kiss
The good you see in me through your eyes
makes me feel happy, even if they may lies
It is you who make me perfect with your touch
I wanted to become what I was capable much
But it was all stranger like a fiction of the day
To hear a rest untold my love, lead's the way
Demeaning depiction to hear true shrift away
To change day of youth to sullied night decay
But with me, fear not your sight may be pitch black
To protect you is a rival Natural black hole never lack
A lunar or solar eclipse occurs in the sky and die
But the true love makes the shines in weeping eye
by
~~~Jawahar Gupta~~~
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 8:33 AM UTC