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Posted by on 2019/03/09 under Life

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

How be-it, the very soil upon my brow,
is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine.

Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe;
for what manner, hast mine blood contrived..

What looming shadow, dear faint echo;
O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide.

Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly;
wilt not thine inexorable favour forsake..

Sweet nothings, with which weeps the soul,
rent from here, and therein; ever-lasting.

Stateless bloodstream, sulphuric epitaph,
windows whom glean not, for fear they lack.

Yesterday's tumultuous agony, lies bespoken;
whilst muscles once meant for Daydreams,
contrive nightmares silhouette's nary notion.

Tomorrowday' wrought flesh, candid spirit;
how must we scream, and so do we shout,
smothered, within blankets, of death; avant.

Inevitable solace, unmitigated ruin; heart
however beautiful, wilt thee be rent askew.

Grinding to dust, what few shards remain,
of my own aside; the somber shades of blue.

Scars whom which happy daggers acquaint,
wherewith swooning parchment doth caress.

Fore art patiently awaits her musings,
awhilst time beckons forth, heaven sent.

Is not the sun's visage sweet, dearest
Scarlet; wilt the answer grieveth me so?

Might seas of glass both grant reprieve,
and wash away cascades of grey, unknown..

The lies which quell beside willows wake,
confiscate reality with persuasive bait.

Shaky handed, uneasily numb, tremor laden;
how might we exist, without such cadence.

Is rhetoric mindful of the wind, or our tears;
are the avenues of malcontent without regard.

Do waters of trepidation console the damned;
whilst bastions of civility veil the marred.

If tomorrow we die, and the days are weary,
what then, and when; how shall we surrender.

For we may ne'er take leave of perdition; what
means doth Thee Scribe, adjudicate whimsome.

To what extent art Thine lips sewn from we,
wilt these hands of naught reapeth lo, save me?

Nevertheless, precipid voids beckon, and cleave,
vexing enquiries of purpose; vying Poetic leave.

-Jones, J.

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