Tattered paths erase steps trod to crooked gait
Frayed regality clenched its hard youth worn spite,
And yonder in gilded hours the sun burns its envy
Gathers all ye spent colours; flames out to embers
Aloft nothing matches your plundering stride
stars nor nightingales flash iridescent tails to follow-
feet planted firm,calm thy nerves -O weary traveler!
Linger here, Inns and Outs have long now closed
While history makes repast to fill the o'er sated
with seconds. Ere-the noblest pastures lie
Certain and sure of you!
Will you not take thy eager soul strides?
To meet my waiting expanse half-way?
Image By Rocky Mountain National Park (C.C.C. trail construction Red Mountain Trail) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label sonnet-esque. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sonnet-esque. Show all posts
Sunday, May 15, 2016
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Gravitas
For every poem I put here, there are four more never shared, around six never written and twenty-seven partially thought out. For every word...

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