Of my idiosyncracies have less to do
with what I write
than thy false assumptions to weigh the air
in perfect measure apart,
I think thee better off my mind;
this world of my shipwrecked dreams,
of wrinkled lip in my spilt words
against thy most high deserts:
ere in solemn or strain beget I,
not least to tell thee of my woe-begone days,
but which to thy beauty's bride I love thee so,
this dull rhyme of unnerved blood in vein;
from off thy graceful ease be plucked more,
than of departed looks,
some dry leaves of book in autumn,
fell from myrtle that wedded night,
ages that are dead upon the sand dunes,
parked beside the clover beach,
I behold our little john play on, play on.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights(C) 2015.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Thursday, December 10,2015 3: 05: 57 PM