Fabricated Fables.

Far along the landscape,
A young boy curses his sake,
A twisting, turning whirlwind
Beside alleyways of new sin
And as I grow beside them,
Watching craggy shapes that quiver
Like falling leaves in autumn shiver,
I twist to kiss and remind them.
That harking back to selflessness
Was over when that sweet caress,
Fell from the arms of providence.

Even though I don’t regale,
In tales of failure in excess.
This one must be shouted from,
Rooftops, high with flowing rum.
Of these stories that we speak,
Of feats of strength and the wailing weak
Of how many do we believe?
Perhaps it is mine to deceive.
And here I shout with sound advice,
That naught said will suffice
And the fundamental code of ice,
Will melt within your grasping vice.

Way up on the golden grass,
A young soul fulfils the past
Who, harshly pulled from fortitude,
Will have the strength to conclude.
It really is as simple as that,
The first will be your only chance
So own it in your own romance,
And to the end, I tip my hat.
So you ask, ‘why should I listen?’
To that I say is your own fruition!
And I will loll and laze and glisten.