Tidiness won’t reproduce love’s bliss

The natural state of being is the mess
The dust builds up and turns into new soil
Tidiness won’t reproduce  love’s bliss

I am fighting my own corner.you can guess
As piles of books around me will all  fall
The natural state of being is undressed

I get my  best ideas sent express
Just like electric kettles  quickly  boil
But speed itself won’t reproduce  nor kiss

Excessive  chaos  causes me distress
My eyes are on the ceiling,will they roll?
The natural state of being is Degas

The  police came when some burglars made ingress
My bedroom looked intriguing, full of coal.
A  holy fire will reproduce   and bless

In Eden  if the snake had been  controlled
The apple would be poisoned for us all
The natural state of being is the mess
Too much,too tense, won’t reproduce nor bless