Orran Ainmire Poems

I would give thee a bed a roses,
But the wind blew it away.
For want of such I give thee poises,
Yet they ever so quickly fade.
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Woe to him who be filled with dread,
Who doth rot from within like old loaves of bread.
Or to he who be encumbered by heavy heart,
Who hath found it replaced by lead.
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A truth from without.
Revelations that are told,
incite trust and faith.
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Hazy morning
Lazy morning
We lie entwined
Upon a sea of sheets
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Malicious acts of kindness
give way to infernal blindness.
They bring only mindless
dirges on the wind.
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My fickle angel and true soul’s divine
Harbinger of joyful, lachrymose sign.
Was the rosebud’s petal spoiled for spring;
Did it ravenously devour our time?
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As the few of lonely merit,
They pass beyond all sight and sound.
For when the time comes to share it,
They’ll stand upon unstable ground.
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My Lady is the eve of Spring-
so cold, fetid, and dead.
To her new life I bring
through my blood of crimson red.
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