Anthony V. S. Smith
Woven By Sin - Poem by Anthony V. S. Smith
Let vengeful be the tune of masquerades
as worshipped over; thence try to deny
to grudge the day when love forbid her wry,
accept them like we do these stern tirades
If worse were to refuse them such parades,
though cherish it obscene I'd rather pry
auspicious pledge by strength a true devout;
the sin of awful youths this tyrant trades.
With indignation eminent to wrath;
what loveliness 'twas left consuming death,
as if it were to be the one last breath;
of hope, that truly shalt once more bequeath.
For longing fond exhibits one's own path,
shalt walk without first glancing underneath.
Bridge of Sighs
Request that words of ire be for the mood,
that umpteen times remembered them the first
yet what has been achieved can be rehearsed
and each pertaining sin, be for the good.
Could each a stalwart flounderer be stood
iniquity hast least been worked coerced
to ask you, do your actions non-less tease,
than more it 'twas so verbally it should?
Astound you that desire be more, harangue,
to guide your tongue in bountiful displays
like Shakespeare's work, 'left envious portrays'
whose signature it wraths exquisite tones.
So gracious can such anedotes of slang,
belong to the misguiding note in drones!
Sloth's Deceitful Grin
Melancholy, steeped inside portrayal
hopelessly retained where trapped inside
abysmal days, are years long much denied
where steadily they backtrack to a crawl.
From there, the darkest mysteries suffice
to notably less worthy ones that formed;
destroying most, the charities less warmed
and having lost the best things life made nice.
from inside looking out the bleak released
is thus caved in, whilst others looking in,
Can see has changed a sloth’s deceitful grin
who living life like death, and now deceased.
how idleness conceives to closing eyes,
when making it the master of diguise.
An idle's worth too close for comfort for,
shall dream pretentious longing for a fool,
to whom acknowledged-wise it rather cruel
she hide that sin from him as did before.
I ask you, hast there further been concern,
for afterthought to chief pursue what love,
aghast, hath I determined she remove
the only clothing, nakedness shall spurn.
How sloth and intervention shall oppose;
concede to follow suit, that idleness
wilt love the indignation further less
than any least suggestion why, she chose.
Then what is love if love for the return,
of effort; can but not be tested; Learn!
Though, I am the incentive of oneself,
to whom one loves, devotion cannot touch
that he may look upon me like an elf;
who spoke of fairytales he may well clutch.
Reflect a worth to mention to your friends,
an arm to hold on still engulfs my dreams,
in ardour let me look, the mirror seems
a trifle clouded still, see what transcends?
I feel a soul's lost cause than getting close,
to something that resemblance cannot lie
let beauty gauge the wealth of one supply
of virtue to the compliment it chose.
To whom the word was said, I am a dish,
cannot for any reason grant that wish!
And wishes have that once elusive show,
of envy that these other woman know
seduce their men with beauty and austere
can any other touch this earthenware?
An ornament, a realm to the abode;
that literature might make as soon an ode.
can paradise select what hast been shared
mistook the fake for fairytales prepared.
How gracious can benevolence be grand,
we bow or curtsy both towards the hand
god given view of mercy, lucky you!
who once upon a time led most accrue:
Not once can I remove the sight of eyes,
to whom one may give worship, a surprise!
For The Love of Avarice
And gripped by the contempt my longings for,
suffice to say how adequate a theme,
may yield that whilst one part of man may seem
too eager may his younger heart so pour!
An ounce of mirth can verily before,
be showing how polite or how supreme
he honours you- the price he pays is such
good manners can elude what we adore.
A cocktail of assumptions sooth a trend,
subjective to the purpose of lost cause
Oh avarice! What sweet curtails applause
exonerates mere beauty afterwards.
How innocent are we to comprehend,
what beauty has obliged it reaps rewards.
Wanton! Thou should'st see believe your eyes,
content! That aphrodisiac; Locale:
It pays by chance with interest - the male
whom rightly thought he owned it through apprise,
shalt seek the compensation due, the prize,
that no more does sophistication hence,
forthwith to grade what action's commonsense
a rather in-depth sight of inner thighs.
To compromise restraint with an ideal,
cementing limb to limb with liquid bonds
a promise such as this which soon absconds,
with fearful consequence I do intend.
If one so gallavants with an appeal
That nature had once beauty to pretend.
What swathe sophistication was it slept?
Anticipating wait with those restored,
A love impending reach beyond one kept,
For having touched the heart of one adored.
Adored? Have I encountered nurtured fruit,
Enclosed within - immaculate the next,
To harvest what anticipates - pursuit?
For chaste can still provide what it protects.
How hastily approach would conjugate,
The ease in which true bond shall closer still,
Embody, press themselves against the weight,
Anticipation holds, what coming will!
It can be shown as never not to know,
For reaping, is in keeping with the flow!
I'll have you not engage than harvest first,
What night time feels the ambience we've shed,
If doubt exhibits seeds for these dispersed
Would deep explore the next enraging sped?
A glimpse is not but more than the expanse,
To which were viewed the most, explore we will,
It cannot wait forever though like plants,
Shall eagerness delight, 'I love you still'!
Contained, I am indeed to holding tight,
The shift of motions working in a dream
To feel the rigid feel for force it might,
As led to this well being of extreme!
Intended can but penetrate the thwart,
From which, if not forbidden, beauty ought.
Comments about Woven By Sin by Anthony V. S. Smith
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
- Still I RiseMaya Angelou
- The Road Not TakenRobert Frost
- If You Forget MePablo Neruda
- DreamsLangston Hughes
- Annabel LeeEdgar Allan Poe
- IfRudyard Kipling
- Stopping By Woods On A Snowy EveningRobert Frost
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And WeepMary Elizabeth Frye
- I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love YouPablo Neruda
- TelevisionRoald Dahl