02:05:24 [poems of a schizophrenic jailbird]

1

'The peg seller.'
Upon her eye, the teardrop fails,
a liquid sorrow, she does yearn,
for pasts shame, to wither wane,
tilt the chin, but see the pride remains.

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'The hunt.'
The hawk, curviture beaks
no flight of obedience
adorne the sky, with such poignant
grace
circular precision swoop her descend
how deathly she makes the brace.

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'Spell.'
Perhaps no other word
could bring true-felt mean,
I feel validated the three!
since when is truest felt
strongest is the spell of
I love thee!

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'Always you to me.'
One single teardrop,
she simply sighs
as I caress her tender face,
but turn of headsprings forth a smile,
aahh! Majestic grace!

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