Quoth the tiny quill,
A telltale rogue,
Quoth he an iconoclast scourge
Roving a Rubicon,
Beheld they the scribe-
Draining squalid morass ink,
Their vestal thoughts flout,
A deformed unreality…
On dits pervade of the disparaged me.
But the scribe and the revered rose,
Undead in love’s scarlet,
Alive in its elegy,
Ravage thousand year’s reveries,
Quoth my quill now and rend,
Cohort’s trance inane…
For years, decades, centuries…
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1 comment:
lovely blog...i hv checke ds after quite some time..m so glad to see dt ur blogging is on....i love ur poems.........more ds dt i love d sensitivity that swirls all around ur poems.....once again...a lovely blog
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