Healing

Poets often loose their groove When entities dearest to them cease to be when their natural instinct to think wayward fades away and the remedy for artistic loss is unheard off Life loses its jazz thereof I was at cross roads some times back on a pilgrimage on horse back as told of by Robert frost We play with words and bake love but are we to also have the cake we affix novels on single scripts but are our conquest worth a headline We decode the language of love to those alien to mammalian emotions find meaning to each ripple of the saline seas of a humane pupil I had my third eye plugged out My endowment, my gift, my artistic touch, my woman the whole subscription, cut off She wasn't your average Cinderella no, she was rocked in blue jeans nothing close to a face portrait she barely graced any make up her face undefiled Her scent sweat and pure passion Lips of a new born, only hardened Buy the equatorial rays of the suns glare She was an endorsement of true beauty at the threat of double standards this century swor to alianate Took just a stare Fate on two feet To heal a brocken pen