Lo, heart's in haste
Affections hung on absolute chaste
Your presence I wish I could paste
Your absence my linguals taste
Hope nature will find a way to surcharge
That my vivid thoughts of you I can recharge
My memories' stuck on you
As being taken by voodoo
But words only try to froth
How the soul cry for the tear
That trickle can't be shred
By the line that pickle
So, the poet lies in a befuddle
As letters fail to grasp
Glut of a cuddle 'cos its nit within
If its report can't erupt seething
Of what use then are words that turn not
World's shame to the poets
Infamy to the composer of sonnets
Woe to he that glistens
Fooled is she that listens
Will I believe all you say hither?
When your actions prove dither?
