I can’t bare my odes down in vague lightings
Précising sheer and unclear I can’t convey immaculate writings
Like the sonnets of Shakespeare.
Albeit my cantos may have flaws and wrongs
Yet I’d love to write much more
On tragedy of some euphoric songs
Of dated Catalan lore.
I’ve dreamed to write on the abyssal cave
Then on the demonic faith
Whilst dreaming at times I do misbehave
Sensing the odes of Sylvia Plath.
I wholly doused in poems of laughter
But now I grope grief and mild;
Deeming high to rise even slighter
Like the wits of Oscar Wilde.