A Rhymed Rant.
I dream to be seated under the stars of Rome,
Writing this long-winded rant of a poem,
To be in the plains where the lions used to roam,
Travelling in silver, and iron and chrome.
To rhyme this piece I shall aspire,
With passion burning like a cold blue fire,
If colours are objects of men’s pure desire,
“Then what about love?” asked the wise old friar.
Faith is a concept some consider pure,
While others find it a temporary cure,
The paradox is laid out here you can be sure,
Till the end of time I think it’ll endure.
Now people, oh people why all this hatred?
When one whispers to Him one’s completely naked,
The heart is opened to the spirit so sacred,
Before Him or Her or It we’ll be graded.
As I make my way to the start of the fifth verse,
I hear the names being called out in a curse,
The wise old friar still looking for his purse,
I smile and hope for a better universe.
This post is part of the author’s miserably failed attempt to write a poem daily as part of the National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)