Till broken sheave and nigh woes
Dredge past shores of roven tears
And soiled breath threaden waves
Lo souls peak and mirth ink fears
And lost souls speak to living graves
Till open wound and dark cold rain
Hide not the shriek of birth pains
And birthed in pale candle flame
Lo Hear the winged bird's maim
A soul and cry in peace's name
Till the blood soaked rag be quelled
No father sleep in merry loch tonite
No mother quiet her child to bed
Nay mercy is not sold this night
Nor breath in slain found dead
Perhaps there be naught left here
But the cruel wolf's gruesome err
We the men of broken tome to win
And break away,break off our sin
Of bringing death nigh our shears
Hear my truth ,the old prophets lied
oracle's came to wretched naught
They lie in cleaner graves and bide
But we are fertile soil for the rot
We are the warriors of our ride
I king lochbard mad and bold
speak i truth in winter's lonely cold
My kin be men dead for long again
My grave awaits but I leave truth ere
Be kind to your new people longmane
Be kind...
YOU ARE READING
Glimpses of my muse
PoetryIf I could hold your thoughts sway for a moment and let your eyes see what my muse talks like - all gibberish that seems to make some sense.atleast to a hopeful me... This is kind of what I have to deal with ... hey just read it ma cherie, mon ami...
