Times come forth carrying an account,
And I still fail to have them be count,
For pride will only be the audience,
To the times too many my act unjust tip paramount.
Three words meant a conjoint of lives,
At my disposal to render you doubtless,
And question my actions countless,
Of what I claim to feel on days of mess, oppress and possess, as I count less.
A sneak peak into my heaven,
Only feels your pain dark as a raven,
To a false world that looks like hell,
In a periphery where a phantom of empty promises leaven.
A warning from a first improper encounter forgotten,
Blinded by a genuine benevolent affection,
For one who still remains juvenile,
At refusal to resign ways to slave philander.