No one is counting the numbers of study,
My upper eyelids flutter explaining the illness,
So study and finality trust me with nothingness.
The upper forehead shines brightly like the rain,
Alphabets of psychological strength are always lost.
Lusts and looting men are all to the foreground,
In the background a hen shall quickly step,
With morose cavalry, with mortified infantry.
In the man’s parlour is a destitute pencil
Inscribing the words of a man who laughs ill.
Indeed, the evening of discontent is a brain away
From real occult frankness, the really basic forgery.
No one is counting the beads of wooden hearts,
The rosary obliterates the pen of hurling ink,
The sweet perfume of the pencil and pen
Is enough to be evening and morning so splendid.
Or nothing will suffice?
No one is in the teeth of despair, so many witnesses
Are in the courts of divinity, striking questions
To their heads and waving wands of lusts.
Topic(s) of this poem: free verse