My poems, like Aurora's rays,
they shine sometimes on summer days.
Each laureled line of lyrics lays
like nun, on holy ground, and prays.
Then when the savage salt sea seethes,
each poem’s born again and breathes.
Amidst the graves and withered wreaths
its sword, like Samurai, unsheathes.
And verse then bares its biting blade
is deadly as the plant, nightshade,
destructive as a hand grenade,
or Napalm, dropped in forest glade.
My poems penetrate like pain.
They shed cruel tears as acid rain.
These children, of my heart and brain
are lethal, like Abe’s brother, Cain.