There is no sword mightier than the pen
writing hymns of cherubims, in this I begin
to lend my weeping hand in established bend
to the page, as it cuts contours through the wind.
Many men harden to the sin, turned porcelain
their vessels in shame, for lack of understanding
the attack of information on their mind less patient
to see the seraphs wings sing in manifestation.

There is a message in every line written
on the tablets of angels, like me, that were bitten
by the jinn, disguised in emotive inclination
that warmed the heart, however, left it to kharon.
Looking at the river styx; remember this?
another feather is gone in meandering tricks
of the trade, by tryst that invade my blinded wits
as passion treks to my tablet, recovering my plumage.

My emotives fuel the wrath in my poetics
flung to the masses, should they choose to accept it
deep upon the mind, surpassing the neglected
notions of so many poems they rejected.
Breathe to inherit the wind within the poet
whether prose, lyric, or specific angel you covet
this is the essence of achieved transcendence
where all suffice and imagination is genius.

So listen up world, that doth think I'm absurd
in writing the spoken word that your mind may observe
as lame, what a shame, you'll never truly deserve
Jannah, as the bane of your existence is preserved.
Poetry! No, I'm not kidding ye of no faith
in the poet's dominion over knowledge that you chase
we are the red diamond in your myriad of spades
lacking luster and quaint to our blinding cascades.
I thank Conquest for riding my  white palm to the page
damn, that's too many lines, I'll revisit this one day.......