4 lines are not and will not be enough
for the part my heart will sing or cough.
32 words will never proof I’m tough,
It will only make smooth words rough.
I hate words that are made of 32.
They are adults; mature, they know the rules
Of love and lust, i’d prefer the naive.
8 words each line; 4 lines, 32 words.
Words spread on lines by few good Men
Can dry off tears from the faces Of
Broken hearts, if each pen’s word would shine
Thirty two times on every dirty heart thought.
Should this love someday turn to dust
Time fluttering her lonesome wings
Reality unveiling this lust
Will your heart hear still, what me sings?
I’m sick with the pen
Still not cured from words
Haven’t been t(w)o thirty wards
Poetry on the line with mad meta -fours!
Each time my heart and soul bleed
I search for the words of sages.
Sniffle them in high and higher till they exceed
And I will be free again from all cage
Let this wall fall down to dust, every brick break.
Sitting under the fountain of its musk.
At dawn, I will sing with a hoarse.
Wishing it rained better fragrance on me.