King upon a cross,
And forgotten gods displaced.
Former ways made false,
And new doctrines are embraced,
Or enforced by sword and mace.

Jesus was a Jew,
But his features were defaced.

When I have fears that I may cease to die,
After all my mind has given to my pen,
No worldly wonders left there to defy;
No answers to the mysteries within.

Poor, poor poet of the people,
Your words will never reach them.
Your rhymes, however sly and clever,
Will never ever teach them.

Only few will find in you
The splendor of your genius,

A mother nested in my loft; with all her children chirping soft,
And how I loved their lullabies when lying down at rest.

Roses, so fair the fragile flower
As it pricks the poet's hand,
And that which bleeds upon the page
Is overdone and under planned.

Words, they carry what they can.

Never have I seen the ocean's beauty,
Nor tasted of the salt that it contains.
I'm certain that the sandy shores would suit me,
And the crashing waves would wash away my pain.

We searched the sands of every beach,
Of every coast and shore.
We climbed the cliffs beyond our reach,
and scanned the ocean floor.
And all the sages lost and learned,

I watch her from a distance,
Perhaps behind some trees.
No courage in that instance;
No balance in my knees.

I'd never hazard speech,
Nor risk a whispered word.
Lunacy would never reach

Curse this man’s ambition,
Cut’em down, cut’em down.
Let us cleanse with our incisions
This delirium he’s found.
Sorry Caesar, time to die,
Seems your reach has breached the sky,

Madness is placed in the faith of the few,
And truth in the faith of the masses.
Keeping their pompous, parochial view,
The pagan put off, the pastor surpasses.

"Young in years and old in hours,"
Pressed to pen poetic powers.
Though often lacking what I need,
To reap the rarely ripened read.

The rhythm falters far too fast,

Hearken not unto that vile temptress,
Her words are venom spittled in your lobes.
Her wrenching of the truth is relentless,
And oft concealed in academic robes.

A ferryman weeps at the passing of time,
No more shall the hustle of feet fill his dock.
His worth is now waning in industry's prime.
His bane, a behemoth of metal and rock.

Consider the clock
As it ticks and it tocks,
Casting the count that it keeps.

It carries along,
Like a stream that is strong,
And it’s calm as it constantly creeps.

You were everything to me, my love,
My life, my destiny.
When I was weak, in disarray,
Your love was just a kiss away.
Angelic gift from God above,
You made the best of me.