Prosaic or poetry
Tis an act
Of twirling and twisting
Beneath the folds and blinds
But within the eyes
Lies, lies, sheer lies
Twist not the nuances
Of poetic prose,
Love was, is and shall be
A rose,
One shall never pose
Thou dost knows
Still nudely exposed
Twill be obscenity at best
Big dad
Thou shouldnst place
Thy mind at eternal rest