Waste Poem by Starr Severon

What a sad waste!
Greatly sad.
A waste! , reminded, she knows....
..of all her woes, continuously
born from all she manifested
dichotomously
No waste in just knowing.
Going! and Done! ,
With all slack
wavering in & out the Black.
The luxury & distaste
In waste in such gross haste.
The awe found in her
unsound bounds.
This & that, is...The Waste.
Her lying nods
to praises of uncommon odds
mysteries of victories.
Miracle? , No.
Magic? maybe.
Wastes of mystery, magic
and even her history.
Bouts of proud
and guilty vices.
Cursed? Blessed?
Twice, more than thrice
for maybe a few to know
her legends of untouched
mastery & talents.
Zen laments with fickle resents.
Waste of true tales & stories
Untold.
With words and recurring dreams
that inspire any soul's vision
with blinding lush illusionary envisions.
Entrancing tangible beauty
that blends and bends
A heart always in the mend
balanced perfections
even with a youth never
knowing affections.
Cheered waste
heedless distaste.
Wastage of unstoppable
undefinable moves
of check and mate.
Born feared? , Revered?
Omni transcendence
always in remembrance.
Truth in vociferance, remains
for the skeptic stains
in waste of mental dimes
in tragic wasted times.
'not of mine', she knows.
In a serene glow she nods
for this mission never to plateau
in what others will never come
to feel and truly...know.