A present day in my journal,
Thoughts make me nocturnal.
Wounds are not enough internal,
Musings are not soft as caramel.
Satan is the hero of hell,
wish I could dwell in your heavens smell.
Stains, mood, and love are Gods gift,
I write, explore you to lift.
Respect in you is a unique figure,
Steady gardens also acknowledge a singer.
Tears in the morning grasses,
are crushed by the masses.
Masterpiece is not my cup,
Poems are even Wordsworth’s bluff.
Time is an alluring slut,
Questions start with what?
A tear smiled in the air,
You are a Chaucer, I can swear.
Love is for you, but my poem did not rhyme,
And a tear is shed for the time.
Nur Nazibur Rahman (c)