Trevor Morse Poet I do not know?

Nothingness

The geminy they were,
heresy to have,
their love. . .
A lifter stand to
why we reckon?
As corse sodden
as the golden maiden
of Spain.  Nothingness.
The thieves,
though they frighten,
A veniable abandonment.
It meant nothing,
Key lime pie, warm
apple butter, love 
and its creation. . .
and its muster.
A nonage of 
retired conceit.

Beauty. . . what is beauty
these days.  And 
for whom to cherish?
For the daring, its crusade.
Enchanting the epic of time,
a mythological revelry.
Poetry that will open the 
periapts of wisdom, intellect, and charisma. . .
are like portents of man.  El Dorado.

My conclusion. . .
As Jesus ascended to the heavens,
dying for our untimely sins,
retribution, virtue, and the essence 
of God.  Portrayed as galliantly
as phosphorescent treasure.
His love, his being, his conception
and sacrifice for our brotherhood 
of man, to cherish and embody for eons.
Throughout spent lifetimes of shared
rumination, rebirth, annointment,
and the essence of the divine.
Here to now, everafter!

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