November Wordsworth

 Robed in apparels of presumption presumably vintage shenanigans though a prodigy right from birth the adept artist known only to a hamlet Knows not what the world out holds for him. On spree of a mirage for La Belle tireless fingers drop strokes off for a psyche of a betroth mistress a facade soothed as twice as wistful adored though unknown. What could possibly go wrong? where a smooth line lies between sorrow and bliss emblazoned in crimsons of scarlet, A lust for love that only exists in graffiti. In her eyes deep lies ambiguity query, worry or weary? mystery behind hands in nestle a medieval far background unfiltered, uncensored creme dela creme Mona Lisa, admiral of portraits he paints.  @juliuscseguya

As I stand at as high as this trajectory With a quill I soar in skies of poetry For the king, my verses I recite A queen watches dropping strokes as I write.  Her words were my light In the dark when my eyes had no sight.  Said Zahara, I know you can do it Why not give your thoughts a flight Shoot for the moon, not the stars in the night For a queen and a king, I write with might. 

Howls a lone wolf at the crest of a hill Stares at an aged falling autumn leaf In view of naughty nocturnal bats Flying close to a stained porous moon.  Sways in the highs and lows of the sky Glides on tides and waves of the wind Alone in search for an afterlife companion.  Origin forgotten, destiny unknown Out of upthrust, kisses the moon and descends Down Passed a willow's canopies To the ground of it's fellow dead for eternity. @juliuscseguya

A hand of a sculptor affiliate of a portraitist's mind paints,  pink hues upon violet strokes on a canvas of my imagery. Looks switch betwixt I and an aisle adroitly  strokes are casted  emerging into a human facade. A tear streams down a mane slithers   to strings of my guitar. @juliuscseguya Read also >>  Empty