hear, hear - many faces struttin' many styles to tease,
pale looks in guilt - even a seer bows to charms of a lip,
when a brigand forgets neither her faults nor his,
but what begets, will such a bribe to us, another tip?

overwhelmed by your scents - slipping into a gaze,
composed but the Lord knows, how nerves were stirred.
skins touched, finding warmth in your frivolous pace,
a reason told - reserved only for you, it can ever be said.

and I wonder why? there's a slant of doubt in your eyes,
behind those dark glowing lashes neatly lined,
you are a skeptic, friend - treading cautiously from lies,
of which you'll find, I hope - a long lost trust of mine.

dear fate, you bereft me of a sentence asplendour,
that single line of words - meticulous in their construct.
just a jot of a note perhaps? nay, I beg to differ,
they exact a thought so deep, lodged - into a heart.

deafened I was - by this quiet mournful murmur,
blinded at each chances made avail.
slumped against a forsaken ship - I harbour no fervor,
on course with destiny, into the unknown I set sail.

careful, even if they move swiftly to seep within,
for all that is drawn - the illusion persists.
but wait, cherish all the colours they might paint,
so what left is love, stays - and this loss, maimed.

down the wide shenandoah valley I wade to plough,
brushes aside leaves of summer and wintry figs.
above a striped soil with all sweats, toils and dough,
for my southern belle, in jest - so we may frolick.

these aged immortal sonnets unearthed on tuesdays,
unread, unseen - a reclusive reservoir of a wish.
to be sung - while amongst the brown strewn hays,
days may pass us by - but it's a bless, this idle reach.

why do you always rhyme? they whinged and protested,
them poets - modernist adherents of free verses.
the reposte is my fellow compatriots; "I swing over a net"
and that net is - my stretched out harness.

by God, I owe no allegiance to men with many hats,
behind a veil of virtues - they extort a capitalised debt.
no sir, I pay homage only to the martyrs of my flag,
and not to you bunch - holier than thou retards.

could I ever survive a prolonged and harsh parley?
whose talks steal empty of what was once - a treasure.
would I fall victim to an extended brush of enmity?
that robs what once, was mine - a shiling for a cure.

who is he in the mirror? governed by an unruly stubble,
dishevelled and yet, focussed in his faculties.
he reigns over a pilgrim's grudge - that rebellious hassle!
the only pledge he has, to seek wisdom - in difficulties.