"waned" poems
~.~.~.~
floating
on the breeze
swirling
in a swoon
laments in
blue and purple
are the
petals of the moon
waned a
crescent of a flower
waxed to
cabbage rose
now the
tight held tithes
sift down
in
airy
floes
lying in the grass
of a dark
wide-open
field
sweet
swanning
petals find me
moon's offerings
revealed
i inhale their
fragrance
their light sweet perfume
they cover me
with kisses
the
petals
of
the
moon
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 8:54 AM UTC
she was the moon
radiating the night sky
and dancing among the stars
you were the darkness
the shadow that waxed and waned
through the phases of her life
she grew to believe
that your presence
is what made her whole
but like the full moon
she shone brightest
without you
x.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 9:40 PM UTC
Something caught me off guard, that hot day,
an unexpected thunder roared its presence,
violent...continuously rose in volume...
the throbbing...the thumping...the
pounding intensified...while swarms of red
and pink fragments simultaneously emerged,
and skillfully created arcs...becoming orbs,
multiplying, spreading...merging...then
shaping into rounds, like atoms...combining,
revealing...bearing a scary realization...
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
suddenly, arms and hands felt cold,
thunder softened...waned...arcs and orbs stilled,
chest started to rise and fall, peacefully.......yet, here i am,
anticipating a next time...when thunder roars anew...
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
June 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 6:22 AM UTC
I’m never ***** anymore
I used to drip onto the floor
Libido was higher, more, my core.
But I suppose, no, it was not.
Because it waned
Yet
I remained.
Yet
I miss being effortlessly wet.
I know, I know
It’s in my head.
But maybe mostly it’s the bed?
Say, what’s different about my bedding?
Is it that I had a wedding?
And now,
Linens my sister gifted my ring and I
Sacrificed
Sprawled beneath some other guy
Another lover
Oh! dear, I’ve blown my cover.
Oh poor dear, my mother.
I'm a disgrace,
A divorce, at my age?
So, is that what stole my soak?
You know, you shouldn't marry a man,
You don't really know.
Is that what dried my dripping *****
A quick ****
From a new husband,
Who wouldn't hear no.
No.
It couldn’t be.
Far too simple for my psyche
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 7:38 PM UTC
Samhain's Eve With Friends
The Lady's light is ripe and full and orange
so heavy the sky can scarce bear her up
as I tread slowly tap tap my staff clicks
my feet in their hurry crush sweet maple and acrid fir underfoot
and the early evening mist grasps at bare tree limbs like heart broken suiters
It's an early celabration Samhain Eve
No Matter
tis me alone and of course The Lady
Slowly I find my stone grove and rest a bit ... price of a Crone
No musicians tonight
Ah the tape will do well enough
No Sisters tonight
too far to come obligations trick or treat ...
No Matter
Circle swept and Caste,Quarters called
next all in turn music soft but building
insence sweet shrouds me
Fire my element crackles and spits with blessed heat
Time to steppe the Circle
This Dance I know so well
This Dance I have taught and danced and dreamt it always
Eyes Closed Cleansing Breathe
Bells on wrist and ankles chime
Now swaying stepping Luna's great course across the sky
once this way next reverse
slowly gently all recedes
there is nothing now but
me and She
She Morghanna Isis Gaia Mother Maiden Crone
My Lady
The flute is faint and hard to hear now
but the drum is strong heartbeat strong slow and deep
suddenly there are voices far yet whysper close
so soft full of laughter and secrets
..ghostly hands Sisters past, lost to me and spirits new entwine with mine and voices long forgotten soar
So Sweet
and my feet so clumsy and slow seem to fly and I hear the flute in the chime of Her laughter
She Has Come
Welcome My Lady
I hear nothing now but the drum and the rush of the wind through my hair
The Drum The Sisters The Fire
and My Lady
Suddenly my step slows no longer is it sure
aware of the stones beaneath and my hand blest but a moment ago now feels the loss of my Sisters grasp
but we are never far from one another
no matter the side of the veil
I tire and stop
the night has waned
the tape has stopped..when I cant recall
Never Mind
Close the quarters with thanks
Sever the Circle
Douse the smudge
and
Thank The Lady for a
Samhain's Eve , with friends
Solita Arcanes ShadoeWalker 31/10/10
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 2:50 PM UTC
In the Still of the Night
On the Top of the hill
As we Lie looking at the Sky
Awaiting a Comet to Pass By
My Mother told me a Tale
Back when Magic Waned
And the Machine age began
With sorrow for its passing
The last of the Elves set off for afar
Left for the sky, on the Elven Star
Machines had robbed the Minerals
And smoke destroyed the Herbs
And Poisons had ruined the Water
Precious Elements from Sacred Fire
No Longer Helped them heal the Earth
The night they left the legend says...
A Bright comet passed, By in the Sky
The Elven Ships Journey on a Magic Tail
Leaving behind a Golden Age Now Pale
The Elven ship returns at 75 years to pass By
And this is our Only chance to see Elves in the Sky...JMF 3/10/2015
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 5:05 AM UTC
The excitement of holiday has waned
& suddenly
I am on the playground again.
I am thankful for my gifts,
but they are not enough.
I stand at the corner
watching all of my friends.
Everyone has seen my toys.
They are not impressed,
no matter how much I love them.
No matter how much I love them.
Laughter & affection,
like Ring Around the Rosie.
Another game I am not really a part of.
I observe.
I see desire on the lips of every child.
The way their fingers itch
to play with my friends.
They glance back
from time to time,
and a smile I’ve learned to force
from the pit and pain of my stomach
leaves them satisfied.
They carry on playing their games
that I don’t really understand the rules of.
I’m fine.
I am angry.
Someone speaks to me.
I’ve learned to lie.
Even my stories are pathetic.
Tales that claw at the base of my brain
like the tears kept caged in my throat.
No one wants to see me sad.
No one wants to see me.
I impress no one with my hand-me-down genes.
Even I grow tired of them.
My blessings are robust
but that is not enough
for friends.
I am not picked.
They all wear rings and play house,
and in my head I entertain
dead things.
I better not tell them that.
It’s not that we don’t like the same things,
they just don’t like me.
Can I hear them snickering?
They won’t say no
but they won’t sleep over.
I am the joke
when I have no games to play.
If I could disappear,
maybe then I’d have friends.
Don’t they love to watch me go?
On this playground full of girls & boys,
lingers the stench of envy & top shelf rivalry.
My artifacts & ancient dolls,
the historic volumes I collect,
treasures only precious to me.
Let me hide away with these
while they show off their shiny things.
Perhaps in class
I’ll find a friend.
Someone with whom to share & offend.
To play games no one else understands.
Finally.
So I wait for that sweet release,
A ground on which they can’t compete.
A friend to which
I am their toy,
whom they proudly show
to every girl & boy.
It is a playground
still, it seems.
They don’t even know
they’re being mean.
I just want someone to like me.
I’m still waiting for that bell to ring.
"Playground"
2/13/04
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
I've looked at my own palms
And seen the lines of this life fading
Fire, water, earth
All getting swallowed by the air
I've turned to love for grace
But she spat sympathies unholy
Success is but a sunset
When there's no soul with it to share
I've fallen to the ground and begged
The moon to give me courage
Yet that mystic orb just waned
And left me naked like a child
I've searched the maze for truth
Ground my teeth upon the logic
But once I left the cave for light
My place was lost among the wild
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
His words stitched like rail road ties
through sentiment and simile.
His fingers like slaves to emotions in his brain.
The hum of his instrument,
so rich and so right.
Constructing soundtracks to stories
about what it means to be alive.
Tapping beats from the back of his thigh,
bop-bop, doo-woop.
Turning feeling into vibrations
that shake the walls of the bus station.
What change he got shaking like a tambourine
inside his cardigan pocket.
The gold trim on his six string
shines like a locket under bright orange lights.
I called him the Musician.
his mother called him Bentley.
his father never called,
the streets called him crazy.
His audience passing cars.
Cigarette butts and trashed plastics.
The Musician waxed and waned
as the world kept on passing.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
I was told about the goodness of men,
Their valour, fortitude and chivalry
Riding in on gleaming horseback.
They would lead poorer souls into battle,
Liberate distressed ladies from gilded cages
And stave away the beasts of sin.
When I heard these marvelous tales
A fierce hunger awoke within me.
I began to search for an ivory tower
To lock myself in
That a man so great might come to find me.
I thought that I had met such a man
His armour resplendent,
His smile easy and compliments quick.
He led me forth with promises of fortune.
He presented me with crimson roses,
And oft he sang to me in sweet voice.
I was satiated, my hunger quelled
With what I thought to be a golden hero.
But as the roses waned and his voice wilted,
I found that he had faults and secrets like any other-
That his bravery was bruised with cowardice.
In fact, he was absolutely ordinary,
And as God-fearing as the rest of us.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
Clever minds that stretch
The many elements which live as our backdrop
Too often everyday is spoiled
By unnecessary people, gathering ammunition
For climbing invisible platforms of command
These are cast aside by simple smiles and welcomes
And it was.
Even if the task was invisible to me at first
My soul felt at home amongst these new work mates
My responsible position was underwritten
Given gravitas and a freedom to which I wasn't quite used
The time was charged with familiar but different
It was fraught but strangely healthier in paradox
The honest fight was taken with gestures of family proportion
Success had waned but the unity of 'knowing' was the strength
That continued to support that Company
In spite of the turmoil my personal facets were given air
To run and to adjust, to temper and to manage
Poor communication was completely disastrous
The confusion of three currencies
And the balance of understanding left us guessing
Never mind agreement or translation
Through all this, looking back my heart is lifted
Not by the freedom or the ability to achieve ...mostly,
It is the strength from our leader,
That calm, silver haired man
When many were distraught you kept us going
And fed us with hope and built our confidence,
Not always with the obvious
But gave us the ability to win through by believing ,
Believing in us and building back our motivation and teasing out
The raw infrastructure of our true capabilities
Never before has anyone, apart from my Mother
Believed in me as you did. To tackle the toughest of tasks
Anything that the industry, the public or our customers
Could throw at us, we dealt with it.
Sadly you could do nothing at the final demise but take the role
Of a father giving news of an aged relative sadly moved by
A force greater than yourself
I know had you the influence, the power and the funding............
You were always more than a boss Chris
Your transparent enthusiasm raised our spirits
And in times of worry I hope we lifted yours too.
I think of you often, thank you for being a friend
After we were no longer professionally connected.
I see your generous smile and your warm handshake
I can hear your laugh now
It's always a treat to catch up over a beer.
I now find you in my phone, in my photographs
But mostly in my heart for being a great bloke
You taught me so much.
Speak soon, with love, Max
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
Would you?
Would you report this poem if I made a connection?
With a foul mouth rough inspection.
Cause we all got that person we would fuck'in connect with!
Then that person we would **** and connect with!
Then if they break the connection,
we take our fist or the nearest object to break their neck with.
****
Curse words that's got so many uses.
You can say **** and mean so much.
To come out in anger or love once you got that passion.
What about when you get hurt?
Ass'ed out?
Then yuh like "dam I'm ******
I just waned to let out a little, not trying to be belittled,
but I know there's someone out there to connect with
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 2:18 AM UTC
People of peace walk gently
People of strength never be stilled
Abundance awaits those with courage
RW Dennen-
Stay out of Iraq the spirits
pleaded...
Eyes wide opened, boots and shoes lined up in order
in almost perfect straight lines in Philadelphia July 2005
Symbolic death shoes of civilians out of synchronization
in a war of soldiers
Under a small tree meticulously placed
we're children's shoes in a perfect solid circle
I read o months of age on tags
I read 8 years old on tags
I read 12 years old on tags
And on and on the children's lists grew,
as wisdom must have waned
and common decency
was once cherished
These shoes and boots sadly became
the dimishment of human beings,
horizontal and vertical rectangular
snapshots of once smiling faces
all in the name of war, they vanished all too soon
And I saw running tears and tears being held back
and I felt lumpy throat feelings in unison
with the rest but in cemetery silence
Touching deep feelings so overwhelming
is to touch a false bent flower and flowers
and pictures of deceased soldiers and civilians
and letters once presented at doorways
throughout America
America cried its sadness and disbelief,
the vanished breathers of life giving air,
Our sons, our daughters,
Our mothers, our fathers,
Our sisters, our brothers,
Our relatives,
Our close friends,
All perished, like a vampire that ***** away the life blood of
the once innocent
I noticed mostly tourists coming in droves from Market Street
towards us volunteers who were located adjacent to the
visitor's center side entrance as silence like before still prevailed
And like before the atmosphere prevailed even stronger
as these boots and shoes became tombstones
And tender hearts became tombstones
broken into small pieces
Passions never changed into loud speech
And the green turf
rolled down towards the sidewalk
like a green carpet holding all those boots and shoes
like a quilt interwoven with boot and civilian
shoe memories about days that should never
happen again...
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
I am afraid to be afraid too afraid
to be still but still healing still
afraid to open all my heavy doors that
he has seen too much unkempt skin
that I am afraid of him that we
are broken that he was always broken but we are nothing
but bandaged apricots in the rotting August sun and he
is afraid we have too much or not enough time
afraid of us afraid of me afraid to speak but he
breathes hot scorpion-kissed lullabies into
my neck into scarlet corners of my pituitary
poisons all my wearied nerves I used to call him
master used to master our loose laundry I
refused to fold used to master our loose smiles
in front of people I refused to fold for
I used to accept his virulent apologies after business trips
I used to be afraid of him he used to be afraid
of my amphibian temper afraid of how I
waxed and waned through tempestuous waters afraid
that he was always drowning
I am afraid of the dark blue ghosts their red
angry heat I am afraid to eat cartridged
bullets of my own words silver gunpowdered
shrapnels if I eat them all lead like you would
seep into the insides of my abdomen
my insides are unreachable have a little
too much sunshine to carry along when spring
arrives I am scared because the light
comes in with brilliant blazing eyes
and sees everything
October 8, 2014 7:04 AM
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 5:09 AM UTC
Christmas died with Santa Clause
when I reached a certain age.
The magic revealed as scam,
the wonder now an act
maintained for the sake of form.
This descended, in my teens,
into outright distaste -
all the trappings
a failed attempt
to light a lost wonderland;
a decorated tree
incongruous and distasteful
as a chimp in a suit.
Anger waned,
disinterest set in,
and I merely wished to avoid it all.
But through your eyes
a miracle occurs:
Papa Noel, mistaking his season,
makes an Easter of Christmas
by rising triumphant.
A tinsel star becomes a true Polaris
and love,
for anybody's sake,
is everything.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 5:28 AM UTC
Our summer fellowships are over! We learned a lot - for instance - how summer’s a lot less fun when you’re hemmed-up, inside working. I mean, we preesh’d the clinical experience, the learning, and especially how good these fellowships will look on our med-school applications - seriously - but there were a hundred rules - aren’t rules incompatible with summer?
Hmm, Ok, let’s see, something poetic..
As the summer sun's blistering radiance waned, shadows,
muscled by sunrays to the marginal edges and corners,
gradually spread, like water - soothing, lenifying and assuaging
simmered nerves with their refreshing, canopied touch.
If sunlight scorched with heat, twilight soothed and gentled,
while varnishing, the dimming world with rainbow, event-horizons,
larger, more inventive, colorful and glorious than any mere mortal art.
Night gradually squeezed, unseen, through those vivid sunset cracks,
and refreshing night-air, drawn in by the last, escaping updrafts of heat,
rustled cooling relief to weary workers seeking the solace of evening and home.
back to unpoetic realities..
When work was finished, we’d retreat from the heat, racing up to the rooftop pool, like two happy porpoises out of school.
Whoever invented poolside food delivery, should win the Nobel Prize for ‘thank you very much.’ We wouldn’t go back to our rooms until it was dark and we’d started to prune.
Now, we’ve a month to relax before our Junior year begins. We got letters from Yale that said, “As upperclassmen..” “Upperclassmen!” We shouted as we danced in hand-holding circles, singing, “Upperclassmen, upperclassmen, upperclassmen, upperclassmen. upperclassmen.”
We’ve grown so much at Yale.
Aug 2, 2023
Aug 2, 2023 at 12:05 PM UTC
by
rgpage
as children sunrise always brought a new day
and war was a game young boys would play.
no thought given to the dark tunnel traveled
no thought given when tomorrow comes today.
with the dark nights clear stars sparkled bright
in our younger day when in parks we’d play.
no thought given to the dark tunnel traveled
no thought given when tomorrow comes today.
as we grew older to the prime of life
and war was a game politicians would play.
no thought given to the pain and strife , and
no thought given when tomorrow comes today.
poised and proud on foreign shore,
protecting the slight , weak and waned.
a young soldier waits his turn at war with
no thought given when tomorrow comes today.
a rifle cracks and the young man falls
his blood turns to mud in the filth where he lay.
his comrades fight his final call, with
no thought given when tomorrow comes today.
at home an anxious family waits, not knowing at all
(for they weren’t there) to see him fall.
their thoughts turn now to the dark tunnel traveled,
and wondered what it means when tomorrow comes today.
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 1:18 PM UTC
Peter built a paper boat
Which he could float about the sea
To hidden spots of lonely coast
Where not a ghost or man would be
He painted words along her bough
That soon would plough and skip and trot
Between the waves that rose and falled
The boat was called 'Forget Me Not'
He bid his wife a fond goodbye
The tide was high when he embarked
He drifted from his tiny cove
While weather drove and seagulls larked
He set his course horizon bound
For solid ground of ****** shore
As darkness came he made a bed
To keep his head above the floor
The voyage took him straight and true
Across the blue, toward the sun
But soon a tongue of lightening spat
And thunder rattled like a gun
The waves encircled hungrily
And angrily about their prey
The tempest heaved with no regret
It blew Forget Me Not away
He found himself all caked in sand
And on a strand of desert beach
Forget Me Not had run aground
But safe and sound from tidal reach
He folded down his paper yacht
And found a spot to build a home
But saved the sail and rudder strings
To forge some wings and daily roam
He glided high and long and wide
Past mountainside and shore to shore
And through the night he forged a blade
And with it made a lumber saw
He felled the trunk and snared the beast
And cooked a feast to celebrate
The rain it sought to disagree
But quick was he to remonstrate
The moonlight waxed and waned apart
And on his heart a longing formed
For home and his beloved bride
For fireside and there be warmed
And so he took the house he'd made
From humid shade of seldom oak
He set the island to his aft
And cried and laughed the words he spoke
They matched the words he'd lately hewn
Beneath the moon in shady spot
He carved into that seldom tree
'Remember me, forget me not'
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC
** In An Old Cathedral**
She knelt upon a plank, plain oaken
(sable cloak, her mourning guise),
and sensed the breath of distant sighs,
pale shades of pain behind blue eyes…
While clasping close a cross-like token
(holding hope for those in need)
she prayed her Lord "please intercede,
my woes be washed, my soul be freed"…
Archangels, in the skies evoken
(candles flickered, shadows shivered),
through the panes, the moonlight quivered,
summoned forth, the wish delivered…
Forgotten words he once had spoken
(dimly echoed ’neath the dome)
swept sweetness of the honeycomb
o'er distant realms they used to roam…
At midnight's knell, in dreams awoken,
memories of love unfeigned…
Though loneliness of grief remained,
she still held hope… hope hadn't waned…
And when the dawn had early broken,
by the font, in peace, she lay…
As sudden as a sunset ray,
the light of life had slipped away…
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 4:06 PM UTC
I've noticed that my mustache grows in thicker on one side,
made to wonder if this blunder's due to my brother, how he died,
Never will my reddened beard grow in and lay with grace
because my brothers lifeless body layed a pressure on my face
Most men primp and think of happiness in mirrors and in breath
However, whenever I clean my face I'm forced to think of death,
(with the face of a brother I've never met)
So I celebrate life and do my best to think it limitless
Go out and do, create for you, make proud the worlds dead triplets
I am the living ghost of Joseph,
All the worlds dead triplets.
I've noticed that my beard grows thicker in just this tiny spot,
'Cause the way they lay, I cannot help but think a rather morbid thought,
The way you are is picked afar from waned or waxed moon,
but what happens there when you're prepared a rather taxed womb?
The newest of 8 darkened waters with no help to navigate,
You'll admit having dead brothers makes it harder to relate.
But they never were alive so I can't say I have regrets,
I must make with my life, for all the worlds dead triplets
I am the living ghost of Joseph,
All the worlds dead triplets.
My mother calls me her surprise and I think "jeezez kryst."
In honesty I'm accident, but the way you said it's nice.
I feel and see it differently inside my orange head,
But, that's just the way **** happens when you're born beside the dead.
You see, I was touched by death before I even knew of life,
I cuddled it and swam beside it up until the knife.
So death, with mercy, stays away and out of sight it gets,
for it knows I held it close, I live, a ghost, of my dead triplet.
I am the living ghost of Joseph,
All the worlds dead triplets.
But it can't last forever,
I've already lived too long,
So immortal I'm on paper
and in the wind in song.
I said it cannot last forever,
I should already be dead,
The world it has a shortage
of another orange head
I am the living ghost of Joseph,
My dead triplet.
So with all of that in mind, defined,
my chances should be none,
I never should have had a first,
so I make all my seconds battles won.
I am the living ghost of my brother Joseph,
and all the worlds dead triplets.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
i remember that first night
how desperately you craved
to feel my lips against yours.
how worried you were when i refrained
from surrendering to your deep inhalations.
thoughts of uncertainty clouded your confidence
while your sense of comfort waned and ebbed
as my will held like a cliffside
against the ocean of your lust.
let me calm your worried mind now darling
it was not for lack of desire
that i held my lips pursed.
it was not detachment
that held my hands shy
of a passionate embrace.
i was lost in the shear comfort
of your presence.
your warm hands on my chest
felt as though they had been there
my whole life.
the weight of your leg across my hips,
so familiar that i was left confused by
the brevity of our acquaintance compared
to the depth i could see so clearly
in your glistening eyes.
it was in adoration for this precious moment that
i held myself satiated.
it was this same feeling that held me in fear
that our first kiss would not be the
electric explosion of beginnings
that we would hope to fuel our infatuation,
but that you would feel dissatisfied by the same ease
and placidity i felt.
i kissed you
in that way i felt i had for years and
with that practiced knowing hand
i pulled your lips in close.
they sang a story so old and meaningful
that i found a joy akin to returning home.
...
and since then
every moment shared,
every touch experienced,
every kiss given and
every kiss received
is a small unravelling of a truth that
i had long since forgotten:
that home is where the heart is.
...
and you have mine
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 5:21 PM UTC
Each pound gained
my stake in 'pretty' waned
in societies tiny frame
of what's pretty
and what is shamed.
Jul 14, 2022
Jul 14, 2022 at 2:23 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
With audacious openness
Let me accept substantial lot of men folk
When it comes to efforts in love,
Most are misfortunate.
Every time they dare to built
Affiliative bonding for love
With beauties beheld
By their limited eyes
The invincible whirling spell
Of fortune’s fool
Beguile them forlornly
Down the social abyss of time,
I and my type not an exception to the club
Of the guys who swallowed misfortune
Like the dog of Theodore erotokorostos
Does to a piece of bone
In poetic obscurantism
Of the corruptible simple souls
Obtaining their pathetic lot from ***** and wine,
In the first trial I chanced on a neurotic peasant,
In the second trial I chanced on turn to be henpecked,
On the third trial I chanced on a beautiful paranoid,
My fourth trial chanced me a deadly stooge,
My fifth trial gave me the worst blow
As I forlornly chanced on the time’s public commoner,
My sixth trial makes me chicken
Had it not been poetic audacity
That makes me brave to chew in public
The lot of my misfortune as I recall
The bitter sweetness of chancing on
A beautiful epileptic kleptomaniac,
My tired trial in the waned efforts
Chanced me a lesbian with insignificant bisexuality,
O! I now tire off from misfortunes of love
With a last black chance on a neurotic money-maniac,
And this is the silent lot of men
In their usual efforts to fulfill their dreams of love.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC