Printer's Devil

No, sir! I'll not move thee more with such stepping stones
in subtle reality of the mind,
of untouched grace thy most high deserts
against time on wings my shipwrecked dreams,
hath her first falling winter snow in the late evening,
ofwrinkled lip in my spilt words upon the sand dunes,
her night-long love in rosemary garden,
unsettled upon the page is printed, printed e'ery flower
upon a barren heath of fealty's Apollo at my door,
of thought so insidious this world at midnight lease all woe,
methinks not least of such vulgarities be part to play
a hunch for the parade under the Archangel's brow,
beside the oak, thy iron car at Matilda's farm
mere wild wagoner's wheel in rust of crowquill
her enchanting slogans of disparity,
would never let my muse fly, fly away from high heavens
those stars you'd them beaker full still musing o'er the dale,
needest not our little john in nurslings of immortality
of wayfarer's clime that half-baked masonry's night.

(C)Naveed Khalid

Copy Rights (C)2016.
All Rights Reserved.

Date Created: Fri 8/19/2016 5: 37 PM

by Naveed Khalid

Comments (0)

There is no comment submitted by members.