The spirit of a dead poet...
it drips into me like sweat.
Seems so self-invoked;
perfection being provoked.
A beautiful torment.
The stroll of a sweet scent.
It strokes my senses.
Hence, this perfect sentences.
A tantalising torture.
Beauty being nurtured.
Words weave around my brain.
The persistence of a poetic rain.
Conjuring armed with supremacy...
Poetry as a desperate delicacy.
A spirit, spiritually sacred;
the quality breath of the dead.
Poetry as a sole religion.
The obstinacy of an opinion.
All I see are poetic gods.
They beckon with strong nods.
