Thomas Owen Baker
Sonnet I. - Poem by Thomas Owen Baker
I render thanks for being like summer wind,
for being waxy, endearing, tender stroke,
when high and low is far because I’m sinned,
when nature is all set to hurt and provoke.
In sombre time of lies, you are too sincere,
too artless soul in this artful trash we do,
like children angels, your lips are elixir,
and a smack, I’ve never tasted hitherto.
In spoken tongues, powerless in lungs,
I failed to pray your entity’s matter when
you needed help from the prodigal sons,
they’re dead and done for wrong, to blaspheme.
I’m sorry, winsome, look for fool elsewhere,
just know, no one will serve you well. Beware!
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