When love be the moisture to the tips of our felted pens,
Our minds are unending sanctuaries of ink the glorified city
from where sleeping Angels awake to blow dry the morning mist
with their sweet flavoured breaths,
We float back against the comfort of heavenly clouds
and watch our felted tips lick perpetual ink before making love
to white feinted and margined landscapes and portraits.
Rhyme be the pseudonym to the offspring thereof,
seeds of hope to burdened souls and lingering sweet tastes
on the tongues of hungry children of Verse,
As we stand horizontal to the wall and perpendicular to the ground
fists up measuring the direction of the wind,
hearts throbbing ecstatic about breathing through another day,
Inside us flows life in raw untainted form stretching from
the margins of our brains to all four corners of the earth,
little by little that life surfaces to find us waiting patiently –
We document life on the face of Rhyme for hungry souls to feed
and frame it into mind-scapes for exuberant eyes to feast on!
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