I read through rhymes
running edges of dried ink
that stained pages taken
mayhaps gained by an insight
of meaningful endeavors and brushes
Of what life do you speak of
O Master of the Poets..
I speak of the many grunts
and designs of the meagre being,
Of watching a sun-bathed sky dieing
I speak of the distant tongue
torched by a raging whim,
the whim of mankind..
And what may they be
my Master?? this whim you speak of..
Whims of fancies that run by numbers
and stage a collision with man's
Extracting the wrath
of the hidden and disguising the
masks of the diseased ..
"The written exclamation of the
bearer of those whims
are often a forgotten curse
as with to begin."