A Royal Palm Poem by Naveed Khalid

No, not this world of wayfarer's clime,
above the mundane,
can e'er illumine e'ery flower upon
a barren heath,
against time's devouring hand,
least not be worthy of thy perusal;
of woe-begone days her night-long love,
beside the oak my shipwrecked dreams:
hung aloft the ghastly night,
of laurel wreath thy myrtle crown,
barr'd of looks so fair in beauty's prime
at my door of rosemary garden,
while musing o'er the dale in silent hours
of soliloquy, thy iron car at Matilda's farm,
sticks out his head like a soring thumb impression,
a broccolli, beneath the bed of crimson joy,
heaven-ward bent that soldier's grave unknown,
pebbles and stones in the ocean sink, our little john,
of e'ery departed look in the late evening,
this imprint of thine holy eyen
hangs but a golden bough on top of the tree,
of ages that are dead upon the sand dunes
down the lane in amber woods,
first frost of falling winter snow
under the Archangel's brow small minions
that arise from slumbers deep,
rest content be oblivion of a host among
daffodils, half-way between the carpet upon,
a sponge of feelings so cold and numb,
needest not in nestlings of immortality,
full fathom five thy battled bones,
of veneral amores runs in deep sorrows the sea, the sea!


(C) Naveed Khalid

Copy Rights (C) 2016.
All Rights Reserved.

Date Created: Sundaty, October 23,2016.7: 16 P.M

* Spectators are they who sit back and sensitize things.

Title Revised: From A Royal Palm To A Royal Dynasty