Note

These earlier poems were written by a self-proclaimed atheist. The present author doubts very much that the aforementioned atheist was truly an atheist, being that the present author knows that deep, deep [read: flushed throughout and clamoring] in the atheist's heart, the still small voice was always speaking.

Lord Leisure

Lord Leisure lounged
Somewhere on the grounds
With an empty pen and tablet,
Waiting for a sign,

From the heavens, among the clouds.
He waited patiently
While the girls served tea, well-mannered,
In the sunlit parlor.

He sought in the cries of birds
The sweet songs of luxury
He was wont to wind about him
Like delicate fine linen,

And he felt the feathery cloth
That warmed the laps of maidens
Lazily spilling time
From the palms of laundered hands.

In cool, decorous rooms
Where gathered, like white moths,
Elysian damsels in fragrant distress,
And uttered violins,

He heard the rain of apparel,
Of seamless silk garments,
And beheld the pale spread of thighs
In depths of crushed velvet.

Lord Leisure entertained
No whimsical delusion,
For surely this was
His kingdom,

And he lorded at his will
The music and the wine
And the elegant superfluities
That time and the means afforded.

Still, here was the naked face
That demanded attention:
A bald plate at his knees
Desiring to be laden.