It was deep inside the wound of that tramp
that I learned to be a gentleman,
where
I could recognize genuine golds
camouflaging in dirt, her sainthood in whor - edom.
Enticing the pallet of words for the purple petaline
of a palatial poetry
with no form,
no luxury,
no cashes, thrown at the feet,
only gold coins of sun warmth
on the leaves' hand
from the longest elongation of supplication,
reaching out to the dark roots equally supplicating in their thirst.
Deep deep where the moist survives,
were sun can not burn or evaporate its only survival.
no rhythm, only the tempos of the real meaning,
no red roses
only dandelions,
the suggestion of sunshine,
boogieing
on the green grasses.
Every inch of her beauty
was bugging the un-beautiful world
even her wrinkles, her broken teeth.
For only fake beauty
fails to recognize the true ones.
But her obvious beauty
was written so fine
that the fine people
could only read it
through
the lenses
of simple clarity.
The symmetry beyond the arrays of symmetrical words,
a sainthood ,
red inside the
red cover of sins.
