Tale Of A Tub Poem by Naveed Khalid

No, not I can e'er profane thee with all too weird
my senses numb,
of what lies buried in yellow-pages of history
to eyes so blind in nurslings of immortality,
this world that most abounds by thee alone,
of laurel wreath thy myrtle crown at sunset of the evening sky,
my woe-begone love of darkened days to some rivulet blue,
much too rendered in age-old grey at Minerva's golden brow:
that crow's quill of plumed hat on knees in ruffled feathers
of broken mast-shaft at north my shipwrecked dreams
of another rend at midnight lease in waking hour,
away from out of sight to my mind still under the canopy of a hut,
some vulgar paper to rehearse that day of unaltered eye,
e'ery flower upon a barren heath in my bed of crimson joy,
of ages that are dead through hurtlings of past woe,
oft leaves me in dismay upon the sand dunes by the sea-ashore.

(C) Naveed Khalid

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Date Created: Tuesday, March 31,2015 6: 33: 45 PM