I cease to be a pole
With head in clouds
To stir the eyes
At the marching pens.
I cease to be a whip without thorns
In glides to flare
Their back must adhere
To the play of fair.
I cease to be a pagan of the wound
With hand abrest
Provoked pen at rest
With sugar in this quest.
I cease to be an onlooker
To the face of Eden
Smelling books in the garden
And still pocket my emotions, hidden.
I cease to be the lion’s feather
For this won’t be my poetic menopause
And this balderdash is a pin from it source.
Glamour in the armour if words even at loss.