Belladona Poem by Naveed Khalid

Then, some do they taunt me with love-hired wit,
toiled by day's labour my pilgrimage to thee,
from off so remote a place to hide
the wayfarer's clime,
a telescope, a compass, a few scraps of paper,
still haunts my head at midnight lease,
of laurel wreath thy myrtle crown,
needest no soft murmurings in silent hours
of soliloquy,
of woe-begone days my shipwrecked dreams;
above the mundane in the late evening
e'ery flower upon a barren heath
against bright-lit mirror of thy most high deserts;
beside the oak of fealty's Apollo at my door,
this world of wrinkled lip in my spilt words,
cowslip her parted hair upon the sand dunes,
clay and wattle-made thistles by the stream,
hung aloft the ghastly night in autumn, our little john,
that day of unaltered eye in rosemary garden.

(C() Naveed Khalid

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Date Created: Thursday, February 11,2016 4: 19: 13 PM