Category: Poems
Ascetic Priest
Alas, all of man is but a sick herd, / Slavers, master, it is no matter, / An illness of sorts has thus been incurred.
Sonnet #1: Our Own Élan Vital
Her kiss leaves blood for me to fore’er taste; / (Drowning within one’s insecurities.)
Childlike Truth
You think I’m pretty, innocent, and sweet / Yet innocence and sweet is not what I’ve seen.
Beautiful Speech
Your body flies on a carriage of wind / To land aloft upon the ears of humanity / The question is always does it fit the trend? / Alas, tyranny of the majority is the calamity.
Spilled Blood
There's no use crying over spilled blood / she hums, scrubbing