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.