a poem by Naveed Khalid, Pakistan

Of wrinkled lip in my spilt words half-way between
the carpet upon,
not a word, not a word can e'er illumine
in the late evening thy iron car at matilda's farm,
rough drive down the lane on a rugged path,
of fealty's Apollo at my door her stumbled feet,
at midnight lease this world all woe;
of eyes so blind, a broccoli, beneath the bed
of crimson joy, from off so deep a slumber,
the heart that fed in nurslings of immortality:
of laurel wreath thy myrtle crown, my love,
of ages that are dead upon the sand dunes,
a few scraps of paper cover'd with snow ere I write thee
such darling buds of may,
at break of day arise, arise, under the Archangel's brow,
that man-in-the-moon still musing o'er the dale,
hath weaved unto the spine of a book leaf in autumn,
beside the oak, in the mellowing spring;
away from high heavens of e'ery departed look
the wall on high my shipwrecked dreams,
pricked with a furr coat in the cellar-barn,
a horseshoe in the stable lay barefooted
against e'ery flower upon a barren heath in rosemary garden.

(C) Naveed Khalid

Copy Rights (C) 2016.
All Rights Reserved.

Date Created: Thursday, June 16, 2016 10:04:00 PM

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