To Heal Thy Coined Stage of Brute Kings

Lately, thy coined stage worry me the most;
brute kings gnawed with unease verses and crude wry
The ring of tragic, opaque plays engrossed
In treason, bleak filth, bloodbath, and brows of sly;

Cans’t thou rest and leave historic intrigues,
Closed books full of dripping chaste blood;
Touch again the bosom of our love needs
and open pedal rhymes to bud above mud?
Long ago fervent kiss is now blighted;
Thee chases the mocking self, odious deeds,
And leaves all hidden treasures buried;

O, let me undress thy dream with beads
of nymph madrigals worn in tune of lute
to spark in thee a sweet flower of laurel words;
to unleash crushed hopes from old, tuberous root,
to sprout dawn in light crowned with warbled birds.

How scoffed is thee soul without my love?
Cans’t thy leave the tester whose wraith
Probes serpent linage hid under desert grove?
Love, cans’t we yield fruits of our destined faith;
For we’re born one in the other by fate–
union of minds, advent from stars innate.

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