To clothe an end, my friend

Of  memories, a trophy I shan't be but tales 
Quite mischievous shall  melt her cheeks to  place a blush. 
Her face of evening rains, her scribbled paper trails 

Left under systems monkeying with holes that crush 
Misplaced two knees, tease worms between my lines and yet 
Unbridled waves they splash on shores promiscuous 

In search of gems to sparkle, shine, a poet’s debt 
To irons never cheating, so unlike the wise 
That filled our years with texts left closed, untouched, unkempt 

Until  their psychobabble xeroxed to disguise 
The pills we didn’t take, it found, stripes green in hue 
On bloody lovely Sabbath’s path or Kanye’s cries   

Untied in hatred, yours and mine, taste buds, spleen blue 
Resorted to the liquor  flushes, puffed some smoke 
In Wordsworth mine still counting kilometres two

Point two, he braved the shyness in our hands and woke 
To see us overcome the veils of beautiful 
Spots, swivel past  lan wires, to what these moments spoke 

To miss their limb,their friend; let me share the 
Crisp Realisations autumn leaves spring forth 
four years of summer wine. Eradicate 
world poverty, or sewer dig with glee 
The modern and not contemporary but 
You should be, as a rebel word-smith’s son 
told my maths teacher. And when ever this 
race will stockpile his disregard and call 
you just a failure, praise His greatest gift 
Adorning your hands, middle finger sweet. 


[ The meter needed a little help from Boadicea at some places.]