Come November gales the skies recant
A grey glory of garland lifeless and ill
Revoke the morality of shall and shan't
A pagan story of tempests oft to shill
Wantoned pleasure they did not make
That's Forged by soft airs smelting heat
Roared loudly in tandem with mighty wake
thunder that growls it's horrid beat
No sooner had my ears perceived
The glories of your charm explicit
My heart would revel and be relieved
In a pain that only love may elicit
Clothed in a white that turns pearls to dust
A frontlet of beauty across your face
A smile that would make even a papist lust
And your body hidden in purest lace
Come with flowers and flowing train
That we might be wed anew
To freshness exempt from awful strain
The newness of yes I do
YOU ARE READING
The Penultimate Pleasures
PoetryA collection of poems meant to embody the ongoing struggle of souls seeking shelter in modernity. (Let me know what you think:)
