Fard

He was coloured, as in fard,

Strutting about reciting the bard,

Showing off his super memory

Of all o’the Kings named Henry.

Smugly he did pronounce the words,

Slowly building up his herd,

Of lines lodged forever in his head:

That will stay until he’s long past dead.

And right now he’s only fourteen,

As precocious as was James Dean.

Though I hope he’s not heading for a crash

Though sometimes I want his brains to dash.

Because he is good at what he does,

Such enthusiasm is rare among us,

So it would be somewhat tragic,

If he didn’t continue his “magic.”

Tweet Repeat 68

"far from enigmatic"
i have been dubbed
"less than dynamic"
i wore it on my badge

slow to move and slow to think
slow to do and slow to blink
i like to mull things long time
i like to form imaginary lines

if in person this can make me dull
if it makes people push not pull

then whatever

i'll seek to one day bring flavour
with words for people to savour

Tweet Repeat 67

I hewed him down, I hewed him good, I hewed him into shape.
I hewed him so that not e’en his mother would recognise his face.

I hewed his heart, I hewed his soul, I hewed his thickened rind.
I hewed him until he understood he would have to hew the line.

I hewed for love, I hewed with love, I hewed apart my love.
And once myself I have hewed enough, I will join him up above.