Confessions of a Poet

Posted by ostar 22 views Poetry

Jul 292012

The Confession of a Poet
Feather and Ink

May i though make this plea
To you dear feather and ink
As i dry like a pound of tea
Yet blissfully to grave i shrink
Desert me not as i lose weight
Even like ink my body spills
Imprint my mind in scroll’s heart
As my soul marches in with saints

The Confession of a Poet 10

Scrolls and Scribing

For ‘tis in you I fo’nd
The sweet seduction of my soul
Yet many a thing might bait
But not my caressing eclectic fingers
Nor my love drunk warmth heart
From the shimmering and ripples of ink
Upon thy virgin flesh
Oh scrolls, my love!

The Confession of a Poet11

My Vice

I built my flesh’s whim
To the might of my mind
That even in strife besieging
It strays not too far off
‘Tho I’ve lived and loved beyond it
As my sweats flow still
Yet they judge me much a god
To tears of my mortality

The Confession of a Poet12

My Love

Were it that we were stars
We’d be ‘neath the cloud
Through its azurest skies
To its splendid moonhood
We’ll shine o’er its hills
Down its valleys deep
Side walking our heart’s paths
Till eyelids close in sleep
Fall like dews, O bosom
From the womb of dawn
And let flower-spirit bloom
To the shining smiling sun
The Confession of a Poet 13

Beloved Candratha
Would it that wit
Intimates you of love
Such that disrupts my heart
On these forms of yours
And soul be laid bare
Stripping off all flesh
Oh my love, Candratha!
Therein behold your likeness
For ‘am love stricken
Your firm virgin breasts!
Nippled with choicest honey
Is like a Grecian fount
And I revere thy thighs, Candra
Whereof my mind caresses forth
As from these fortressed portal
Like of to the citadel of wisdom
Thus this blissful fusion oh my
Beloved dearest Candratha
Set every fiber of my being
Twanging to the will divine

Love is the mother of all virtues and the murder of all vices.
It transcends the physical through a sort of metaphysical smoldering.
Thus I conceive this as the explanation of the inexplicability of its bewitchment.

The Confession of a Poet 14

The Last Virgin
They were there
Having it off before me
I bulge, and often wet
Then I say no!
Sometimes subtly yes
And often neither
Mopping as if muddled
Then I say not me
For ‘am yet a virgin
But before me
Are me and she
Who tho’ I know not
Frequents my mind
In idleness of thought

Human acts are the things that make us pure humans,
but as of the acts of man, we take responsibility of what we do.

The Confession of a Poet 15

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The Confessions of a Poet
by Ostar Amakeze on Wednesday, April 14, 2010 at 8:59pm ·