The first poem of twenty fourteen

This is the first poem I will write
in the year 2014
still longing for the touch of a pillow
filled with the plucked feathers
of a dove, and as sad
as a drawer of masks may be
it doesn't take much for giddy eyes
to sparkle before well spoken words
as ears whom have been accustomed
to the language of sailors with
raging bull cocks
take a moment to soak in the charm
of a seraphim's vocabulary
and though the dark still dictates
behavioral addictions of the hungover
mouth craving water, the tongue
still manages to find a way
to salivate during the nicotine drought
seasonal like the colors of leaves
from green to the gray grave
dying as a bright orange or yellow
lying in a death bed of rich
soft soil, lying in a profound peace
content with the silence of dust
gathered on the blank LCD
TV screen, no motion picture
in motion, no handsome actors
with symmetrical faces expressing
what it really is to be a poet, writing
his first poem in the year
twenty fourteen