Terror deep into that darkness scaring
Terror death shall bring out extremists
Death long I stood there provoking, declaring scaring
Terror I crave the terrorist, tearing
Terror you warned me about the sparer, not caring
Terror overreacting and overreaction with my militancy
I protest as I contest
I have dreamed of the elements
I crave the material, militant! Militants!
But in the fact that it was dripping
Still is whipping, still is whipping, whipping up destruction and terror
Much I marveled the material battlefield
The military melancholy mussing
Terror while I pondered, tearing and sealing just short of stealing
Terror deep into that darkness objecting
Terror death shall bring substances
“It’s that beating, “so I muttered
Terror picking up dead bodies that clutter
2/9/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2022©
The sparsity of congregants
reminds me of the absence
of jestful boys schooled
in the faux arts
of throwing hymnbooks
across the nave.
The smelters ran two shifts,
fed us beattitudes
of paid mortgages
and Sunday roast beef
as the school teemed every year
with five-year-olds.
Sidewalks buckle
atop the roots of oak canopies,
as the breath of traffic
grows sparer;
the psalms of our minister grow fainter.
In the tart air of early Spring
those sly boys
would cup a book in a palm
and pretend to launch it,
to the mortification of their mothers.
Tamed time in my imagine store ,sky is a stage for a Drizzle Drop
Atoms pirouetting on broad high heels
Molecules are singing in mute melody
Twinkling shiny kings tend to twirl and tune like Mozarts of moon.
When I saw that marvel, my shoulders shrugged
I fetched fairly panic.
My skin got to melt sparer and leaner as my sweat
and only thing I could fit is in to a tunic.
I was curious to know the age of sky
Because it is melting much more than most of moist as rainy tears
I reason so; why is it still bearing the world in movement of misery in every crusade
And with a statement of sweet and sour sentiment it is even making me cry spicy with salty sobbing.
You may find my rain drizzle from heavens and fall woo
only to reach our soul and try to fit in our own shoe.
Every now and then my bubbly rain sleeps on sand
And it even takes part as the shade of fantasy and sad.
My rain might always has inner directed thrust
To rain down to the reign of the thirst.
While evaporation my soggy-boggy sodden rain flow high
And even, in a frown frazzled furnace of weather with thunders, he keeps on to sigh.
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