Tuesday, April 7, 2015
I work in a library of plain novels,
Within five hundred yards of a prison,
That buys a twinkle in the eye of life.
My words are actual like liars,
My phrases are joining as monkeys
In swift play so that motherhood
Accepts them as soldiers or troops.
With the work of centuries I
Consider the holidays of much jamboree.
With actual accents my speech
Condones the speaking prison of lights.
And to spend on them is deifying
A righteous man who lifts up sights
For the funerals of the believers.
Normal men have fun in the side of roads,
While the majority of thinkers
Do not gyrate in their mind’s eye.
My words are novel indeed,
My speech contains the aspects
Of starts and stops so eloquent.
Topic(s) of this poem: free verse,words