Naveed Khalid


Femme Fatale


Thus, half so ill my distempered brain, doctor's folly-like,
Pestilence of vague impressions by far removed from thee;
Twice so sickening to the bones, my love, of ages that are dead,
That grows upon e'ery fig leaf in autumn wind,
Full rich content of some vulgar paper to rehearse,
Still lies burried with me the hand that writ in mournful numbers
This world of a vanished eye, alas, unused to flow!
Withers, too, in vile words of what in ill-omen,
Uneclipsed of looks so fair my untamed heart and cold;
Knows no bounds at life's long midnight lease,
Against time's tickling toes, of wanton tapestry at thy throne.


(C) Naveed Khalid

Copy Rights (C) 2014.
All Rights Reserved.

Submitted: Tuesday, September 02, 2014
Edited: Tuesday, September 02, 2014

Topic of this poem: doctors


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