Untitled Thoughts


I began the lonesome hymn
Of knowledge fairly discreet
And took a few, and all by two
The lines sped through the beat

Tears dry up the fastest
When they fall in Sahara’s sand
But as they spill, the air will kill
before they fall on land

The pages yet crippled,
Read fine print to this fellow
With them to lie, with him to sigh
The pages turned of yellow

As though the chair creaked harshly
The floor rough as the oak
The object depictive, if not inflictive
Cursed the position of him as he spoke,

“Maudere, oh Maudere!”, said he in silence
Talk of the bleakness screwed within violence
And the carriages of our prince and queen
Wished to be banished from this evil scene

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