As I garner the truth, the propensity is intense,
as we leverage the perfidious and dispose of the passionate,
succumbed by the illusion of destitute, masquerading as the portal of heaven.
Endured the feverous and persevere the most significant obstacle, of
obsolete sustenance of death, solace, and malice of the heels of the
the unknown dearth of illness.
The informant has cast doubt like the flagrant fortress of the brothel
that swarms in mellow of the heart,
vile as the pile of residue that
has flaunted its garrulous lips of seduction.
Impotent as the salacious cannibal that wrecks the ship that spins in the air of the unorthodox canny of betrayal.
A portrait of disarray, misguided by the
cultivated as one mimics the pendulum of the flesh
that you touch in spirit.
As fire burns, we bend to the blemishes that left scares on the wall, like the remembrance of lost, scared scrolls of the earth.
Buried in the hollows of the earth,
the casket leaves the carvings of the pristine
as we draped the flower that once graced the table of the living.
Freedom rolls off the mountain like you slip away the honey dripping from lips, not knowing you’ve ingested poison.
The belly of the young takes the heat as we beat the rhythms of silence into their sweet innocence of compliancy.
The armor of the brave had disintegrated into the disgrace, while tears followed yesterdays’ liberty.
To whom the bell tolls, has mustered garner, as it rings bells across the pond, as treasured as give me the liberty or give me death erected in the halls of the brave. Precision may leave stains, but the echoes of truth, as angered the past, as they sway like the pendulum of the amulet that holds treasured pariah while retaining heat to the parody of savagery.
Turmoil as the blithe squanders in the valleys of the castigate
and watches misery gleefully before dawn,
refuge only in the seas of Niger River,
and only to be revisited by the Tigris River.
Divine as the splendors are wrapped in the credence of the delectable blood of the sailor. Anchored by the truculent and spared by the delusion of defunct and deft.
Honor has depleted and only asks for the mercy of past letters. Only if one can arrange silk robes and translate, read and articulate the power of the language we once treasured, honored, and relished.
Copyright © 2022 by Sherley Delia. All rights reserved.
Healing Majestically 