Compliment not my wordsmithery, I urge you,
I play with words a game of marionettes,
My pen scripts zealous terms to voodoo,
North I declare, and north he sets,
A swatch of deceptive ink reels a few,
Retreat and bid you summon your bets,
But, alas, my words were coined to woo,
One line ensnares your virtue in my nets.
Lord, no word is sufficient to praise Thee,
I thank the falls that were to my benefit,
One supplication sets my worry free,
I thank any destiny to me You’ve writ,
With days, You’ve urged my eyes to see,
That any path You drew is well-fit.
An ode to you, my darling, fingers weave a prose,
A stream of verse I devote in honor of your flair,
Forgive the rhyme that to you no just bestows
Would an eyeful of gentle stares do you fair?
Here comes March in his attire of gold,
Instilling in my veins an urgency trifold,
A clime of purity the winds foretold,
A childlike fancy to the daffodils enfold,
Upon their petals, urge you pluck and hold,
They of warmth reek; the daisies have told.
Luscious cascade of
Black was her hair,
Arabian kohl adorning
Her honeyed eyes,
A dress of crimson
Tugged her flesh,
Henna swirling around
I cupped her hand
In mine, mine,
Fairy lights glistening,
Emirati songs whirling,
I looked at her
And she smelled like home;
He praised her stars away,
Starless she now gleams,
Setting sun confines the day,
Whirls of somber, sad dreams,
Muted and laconic; she’s no say,
Buds of spring left her, it seems.
Dear Moon, have you the grace
to grant me a feeble favor?
Offer me a ride, would you?
To my lad, carry me, Miss Moon.
I’d love to shadow his steps.