For the avaricious, none and to the meek
A few, distant whispers reasons bleak
In San Francisco fetters of tender dreams
Too late for the bringer’s dues!
Cry, not for Delta but the trodden in its droves
Weep Assyria, thirsty dust your beads await
With ancient hallowed dew, the dust fed by a
Wise one, whose compassion none persists!
Seep big apple seep, thy impishness anguish call
Thy aged sister, oceans rift her ancient bell call
Her heaps, thy embrace it’s wholly moist tamed
Save the well-heeled, in his clench thy destiny delivered!
Dust, and sea both silent bystanders, of thy surplus feats
Sails mindfully gathers wind, whither goes’’ thou with thy loot
If thy most precious, entrapped thou in wheels of drain
Unworthy of beasts nor souls, whither goes’’ thou oh master of craft!
Who, in thy defence heed, when thy calamity beckons
Who, in the mist of thy well-heeled, the fury of oceans endures
When the cry and wrath of dewdrops, on the sails of time erupt
When in thy season of rein, none wouldst thy tears consider!
The bringer’s ink dries, thy gains only, enshrined in her portrait of thee
Where wouldst thou solace find, when thy judge was thine entrapped
Did thou the bringer’s charm consider, when time made thou master o’er all
Now thy vicious image unveiled in the ink of thy tortured wordsmith!
Adorned in droplets of sorrowful seasons, who wouldst thy portrait redress
The scribbler trapped in limbo, for in colourful souls gained thou thy gold
Thy deceit unveiled in vivid text for all to behold, a snarl emerged
The mountains thy request oblige not, master of barter whither thou run!
Treasures profits not beyond, though good words and deeds dwarf’s gold
Shines of silver pales to a lost writer’s timeless scribbles of suffered passion
Chance recall, void of malice or vengeful pursuits, dried ink under the heavens
Orange Sun, arriviste, thou bead in vain, thy image set in portrait of pebble!
Brow of coarse beads, echoes a tortured existence, cold pleading murmurs
Silhouettes deprived of form trail thee Amschel, their wailing pierce thy distress
Dense clouds shield not thy gaudy portrait of torment, unveiled to a lack of rays
From sun nor moon, drab images of warm intents condemn thy led past!
Were it a dream thy willed an end, greyness abounds in thy sea of wail
Madness tilts Amschel’s consciousness, impotent, shackled to eternal thirst
Similar were thy scribbler’s torments, when he in deranged words scribbled
Portraits from a distant world, so valiant in thy timeless grey abyss!
Woe mirrors in thy image, thou forgot time belongs to a master scribbler
Who authors all fate, as is with the wealthy so it is with the pauper
In ink their paths are chosen, but to both a blank canvass is accorded
In sheer silence the scribbler observes all, why then oh master of craft!
Will, thou traded a portrait of timeless bliss for a season of vapouring silver
Will thy dusty treasure the master scribbler entice, as late for the bringer.
So, it is for a portrait on a dried canvass as thy bringer enters in to his bliss
Save the master scribbler upon thy portrait gaze with dewdrops of tender ink!
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