Trevor Morse Poet I do not know?

A Mistletoe Amidst the Pine

Amongst the quivering love of
dying romance, 
there lies
a passionate many, 
lending love abound, 
falling away,
unsettling lives.

Whil'st amidst the dramas 
of the unforeseen acts 
of those enlightened, of the 
troubled few.

There'st upon a mistletoe
amidst the pine, as 
the melting kisses of 
love anew.

Can'st thou make what is, and
for whom thou must.
For be'ist upon thy throne
of virtue, the essence
of lust.

A forceful act, this fulfilling
endeavor, as a peasant
of dire drunkenness
unwilling.

When in search of truth
and its generous 
upheaval.
There you are astounded, 
while we flounder, the curious
retrieval. 

Now we have a bountiful
passion, emitting the 
hearkening of the adventurous
many.
Where'll'st  be upon this 
frown of forgotten labor
and sorrowful penny?

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