The Beau's Tale
Love is some thing i entreat
Of which without it my eyes are in the murk of picket -eye lids,
It is a Croft on which our spirits first grub
To then be able sour among the lunar stars.
Some call it cloud nine but i choose to call it divine,
Never likened to the camels of the caravan as
Gradually their necks tarry on the dwindled dust
Till their mouths become a canister of drivel:
Malign,prate and gab.
Fair it is but not as fair as fickle:
Oh yes, leaves turn brown in winter
And Dross gives way for the sinter!.
“All must go in whimsical bearing”
Thats what the clock sings
Brighter is its glass as it is brittle:
To which on wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry:
astounding work of art polished in tears.
He who cares to listen to a messy secret should
Strike the egg first against the wall !
Two loves i bear,of comfort and despair,
My better angel a man right and fair,
My worse spirit a womans coloured ill.
she is my rainbow overhead my sea,
Seven colours painted in the skies
but three shall always sting my eyes
as they are green,red and blue.
As i saunter through grasslands and natures green
I reminisce on how i sang to the trees and shrub
Of her i call my queen.
Yet her iris remains green to a phantom
to which she does espy as a simulacrum of her very being.
Red is what oozes from the Dart
when she hits the bulls-eyes of my heart ,
she burned with love as straw with red fire flamed
but burned out as straw out burned.
Blue is the dark cloudy weather
Where fallen beau Gazes placid to the sea
Faraway the single stag,banished to a lonely crag
To watch birds fly in and out of man:
Mariage is rarely bliss
Wherein a lovers kiss either be felt
Or break the loved ones neck.
Though the face at which i glare in the mirror be cruel,
For year after year it nauseates an ageing suitor,
It has sufficient mass to be altogether there
Never likened to an indeterminate gruel
Randomly placed here and there.
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