Poetry- My poems

I still write poems,
at the verge of the oculus
Where the birds learn to fly,
The wind blows secrets to my mind.
I gaze out always,
How beautiful the sky and it’s wonder of clouds align,
And the dying orange sun,
If only I could tip a nickle to stand on when I write, my soul would renew.

I still write poems,
About Veronica, the Pontiff’s niece,
her beautiful and lustrous face reminds me of Mother,
The maker took his time to make such a creature with selfishness.
I admire her from afar, my religion ruins it all.

I still write poems,
From Night till morn,
On the system that promised redemption,
Same beast in different shells,
An interminable ripple caused by the vibration of corruption.
A cult of vultures…
I love my leaders.

I still write poems,
Even when my ink flows from my vein,
I fear not mortality,
But I fear life,
For even when we live, we die
And through death we live…