Within, the Secrets of Whim
As to when,
the pen falls eerily.
The sadness of lust,
a perilous dusk
for thee that settles
upon the many wary.
As Edgar's Lenore,
reminded,
the Crow's greed
and nestle.
There spied the
Raven,
crying for thee
the more merrily.
When lovers' qualm
exacted by traitor,
the courtships of
evermore befallen.
The arduous array
of made up serenity.
This fate of endeavor,
by virtue a Luciferus
fate for all. As
pride brings forth
the epic of death,
an epitome of
angel tyranny.
As hurt and loss
gives way to
pain and admiration,
the feelings of turmoil
to squall, as decadence
and poetic duration.
When the fruit of
thine, your own merriment
of pleasure, the tragedies
of myth, of present, and
of now, found only to
riddle life's cessation.
Of need, of ignorance,
of majesty, an infinity
of the divine. There
lies within, the secrets
of whim, shared your
good wife to mine.
As the penniless plot
the treasure of devilish
wanton, a fortuitous
abandon of thee,
perhaps a chance
prick, nay an Edgar
once daringly. . .
a ripe shaft of vein.
When the virtue of
nothingness, outwits
the logic of reason,
there lies the devil
grinning amidst
treason.
As Gods shed their
Grace, and Goddesses
parlay the hearkened
measure. The knowledge
of gay ole Lucifer,
their brother,
their undine
of Seraphic treasure.
As the winds that chime
and as the clouds that billow,
questions we
can not, our love
the lesser.
Copyright © Trevor Morse | Year Posted 2006
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