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Poem

It is awe, but another day of doing of non pleasure.
For the pleasurable is not of reach.
Yet, it is the unforbidden fruit of my work that yearns to speel out on 
these pages of creation, of which I cannot reach.
For colored sketches would send them to their plot.
And I am but a loser in this untriumph novel of life.
No Nobleman to coo my nights of need.
Many of empty goblets to hide the night that is not to be spent.
So be it.
But then the pleasurable passion of a Nobleman nor a position of wealth
was never what it hast been said to be.
For is it just a dream within my imagination.
Yet I am but a boy?.
Neah, in thus life of passion and woos?.
It is  that of the late nineteenth century yet I have been placed in a sixteenth century mind.
Awe, but thee is a Goblet and thou is a sward of time.
And to appease the sweet mind of thine innocents is to cut my own throat, for it is to be
pleasurable to abe beyond thus world of wretched time.
Awe, for the severed flesh beneath my chin is but a mere sting as the liquid of red
brilliance begins to seep.
For as I lie here in the warmth of my blood chills run through my body.
I begin to soil myself in a sense of my final satisfaction in thus life.
And as my sights fail I was to take a final glance at the greenery outside my window.
At last I have fallen fast asleep for a final time never to awaken.
How I shall miss my Goblet.


Copyright@3-2010 MaryM.McShirley/Kilker

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