No, it's not fair, it's a massive bummer... To see too soon the end of summer;
She were a splendid lass who loved the sea And loved the elegance of poetry Where her bold essence gloriously throve, As sparkling treasure in a magic trove, Displayed unto a fellowship of hers Of great mademoiselles and fine messieurs Who hung upon the sculpture of her words As wings are hung upon the sky by birds, Who, come what may, with all their feathers, Hurled themselves through the roughest weathers, So that...JUST...
I do not deny my love for the sky And my love for iridescent wonder Which has me ponder the poetess thigh At the risk of a poetic blunder... Yet the risk is there due to obsession And subsequent established addiction To a chain of semantic progression Yoked to an old English affliction, Which I like to think...still stays in style At all hours of the day and the night And even every once in awhile With a flash of philosophic insight... Enough, at least, to stay introverted, And escape being tagged too perverted!
Oh ye marvels of pipe and drum And regal coffin banner draped... You extol a grandeur become Another mortal unescaped From the sting of the Reaper blade Which honors no royal merit More so than the subjects portrayed In the lower orders they inherit.
Marvel only that men make such scenes As to have us think she were a god, Who, as in Homeric tales, intervenes In some Deus Ex Machina glissade Which reckons we will forevermore be... Exempt from a ruthless reality.
There was a Zephyr blowing by Rushing to greet the quarter moon As it rose in the eastern sky As somber as a contrabassoon Playing to set an autumnal mood Friendly only to earthen tones, And timber melancholy hued For melancholy anglophones Who would have September forevermore With moons in phases high and low And accompanied by the meteor, Falling, as an angel, now below The amber summer of heaven above... The Zephyr skies of mortal love!
The clouds lingered lovingly by the moon Whose waning gibbous was fat and gold; As gold as the sunset temples of old Ever commingling with the growing dune Delivered by immortal Zephyr breath In iota aggregation fury As constant as the low glowing curie Illuminating entropy and death... Or cold stone Luna, far above the sky; Far beyond Terran clouds of love and life And all the things that love and life will try In the whirlwinds of animal strife Where no one willingly will comply... Until moonbeams pronounce them man and wife....
I dreamt of a Velvet, in midnight blue, Draping a poetess I admire, Whose verses stir my desires anew Into a lust that makes me perspire When contemplating that Velvet...apart, Or falling down in a revelation That amplifies the beating of my heart To inhale more of HER perspiration Soon inter-coursing with vortical lust, In Cytherean anticipation... For the taut poundings from my pelvic thrust And impending seeds of impregnation, Diverted, though, when I pull myself out... To have her sip at the seminal spout!