Friday, February 20, 2015
My Dying Plant
A dying plant shall never make my words
Fall from the leaves as they flow towards heaven.
The golden paint of this new organism is against
Humans who protrude in the midsts of laughter
Of nature's balm, and those in history have
Taken on a tree that has been planted by the heroes.
This dying man forsakes me even from a wide square,
The natural thing is the obvious drinking tankard,
From it flows a wine so pure and distilled to be holy.
My sickness within weds my very soul so often
That disease has happened in the heart so often,
As this demise befalls the literate and the illiterate.
My lordship cancels the ladyship of your dream,
Inside one is housed a pen that swings like a
Pendulum of heavy actions, supporting the acts
Of a a timely man who watches and sustains cowardice
Combined in him, permitting a new release of effects
Internally absent, for this innate ability has also arisen.
Topic(s) of this poem: free verse