wheat feilds
where the sweet wind wanders
and the wires sing out in
their earnest voice

let me run the pliant
course where loves
wound weeps

and let me lay my head
beneath the stark and
reaching heavens
the wild thrill
for taming dreams
spill spill
glitter garland glam

let these rakish bejewelled
delights be free from heist
for youve stolen me from
lesser plans
and built your fortress

All the words are bitter bile
abhorred as soon as written down
added to the discard pile
I rip another page and frown

How can I write when filled with rage
with words and thoughts aflame?
shaking pen will not engage
will I ever again write the same?

I would to write of peace and love
ideals which lay in disarray
turning red rimmed eyes above
"Bring back my calm to me!" I pray

Second version of a readers perspective which is???

If at times,
Clock's hands
Were pushed back
For years as
one may assume
the computer existed

Just think how the Bard,
Would’ve faced the music,
To clarify his newer
birth of words
Not contained in the dictionary.

What power did he wield?
To use a word such as musify,
As it then had not existed.
The Bard I daresay
would have had an
explanation the way

The way she spreads her legs,
like a letter of despair,
as the wind bellies with
a thousand voices,
and her mouth becomes a tomb
of little girls, a cacophony
inside a stale womb -
too warm to sing with an eagle's flight;
angels pressed in her diary,
waiting on their second birth -
'till she borrows a half wing of a casual moon.