Relentlessly unaware of absolute hesitation,
snaggering debris unfolds inadequately beyond my soul,
unbruised, unhurt but painfully stainful to my heart.
A whisper of discomfort floats aimlessly upon my ears,
a melodious tonation untuned with an irresistible low pitch,
sagaciously incomprehensible to my liking.
Wrongful deeds of devastation browses my inactive thoughts,
only to contemplate low hopes of my feelings unwanted
by the four letter word that has ended lives for centuries.
A tear drop, drops, and drops again
a faint smile disillusioned by confusion,
transfers hollow sorrow to amusement.
Reality evaporates slowly to ease tension
to make sense of what is to be cast out,
but melancholy dares not unfold.
My saturated feelings over exceeds it’s growth
wantingly, needingly, yearningly, desperately,
but yet only to be denied diligently.
Unusual predicaments arises,
astonished and bewildered by my own intent,
I was adequately convinced only to decline.
By Francois S.W. Simpson