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Poem
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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