Poetry / HAPPY YET?

Might this poem serve to muse you,
Must its form delight your eye?
I will tell you it’s beyond true,
This is why it waits to lie.

Too many words were made to please,
Are all these words made for your sake?
Should your spirit these words ease,
Or your essence these words take?

Now your eyes are in my writings,
Both your eyes are mine to hold.
Let us read of more ill tidings,
Pasts are tales not meant told.

Left are writings of a man,
Left for all of man to need.
Pushed are dollars through his can.
For our sins this man did bleed.

All is lost through words changed spoken,
Meanings lost with false words learned.
Make pollution of faiths broken,
No resolve beyond page burned.

The studious new nature born,
A curious and eager child.
From instinct find each presence torn,
Which precinct holds the case less filed?

Defiled, beguiled and lost to sin,
Restyled remains for all within.
Detailed, re-nailed on cross again,
Then lost to wind are tales I spin.

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