The freshest air is seen,
And felt in ways untrodden,
Is absent on the scene,
Where tongues begin to odden.

My thoughts become uncountable,
They shout and create bedlam,
My problem insurmountable,
Is my blonde and blue eyed problem.

Hail, self: you are deeply,
Theistic, and it has served,
You well though meekly,
Those harmed you’ve observed.

‎’Good’, I have dared to refer,
To myself as one alone,
Without the need with flesh to confer,
But write, and risk being known.

A weary dwelling place,
My words must oft abide,
While they write on your face,
The things they would confide.

Impressive, maybe, you think,
Convinced, is further delayed,
By this time you’ll blink,
When I am more persuaded.

Matins, it seems we meet,
Again just to discuss,
The state of my heartbeat,
Which rises as it must.

Denied: no that’s too much,
To ask, See I cannot,
I will not touch,
The verbalization of my thought.

To understand the slightest,
Of me and my many a word,
Free me as I writest,
Just let me be absurd.

Non-verbal communication,
At times may look superior,
Yet words and their evasion,
Have proven speech inferior.

Hope is a dangerous thing.
I think I’m well-experienced,
Of danger, and other things,
Like poetry mysterious.

My goal is to make of you,
A wondering construction,
Of all the things that love you,
And please: less obstruction.

Innocence, tell me it’s true,
And finally I’ll exhale,
Keep up the perfect you,
Like you have without fail.

If I must somehow decide,
Between mass comprehension,
And personal self-expression,
The former would be denied.

To keep in mind a destination,
Might perhaps make the travel,
Much safer for the patron,
Less wearisome the gravel.

Do not ask my your question,
Of why I keep your picture
Beside my hemlock potion,
Near the aspen pitcher.

In a box of windows,
I am drawn to your face,
This type of freedom goes,
Into my veins like grace.

Reverie please be kind,
Follow the set out rules,
Don’t make me lose my mind,
Or leave me with the fools.

Somber song which escapes,
My lips and oops I’m heard,
Then the smile which fakes,
Itself betrays the word.

Alone in the cathedral,
I thought I heard you in my echo,
But lost in thoughts so daedal,
I knew I must let go.

Must I draw my sword?
Upon occasion this soon?
Would the words which I afford,
Leave my hopes misstrewn?

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