Thursday, July 25, 2013


The story told in furrowed fields,
where hearts fell fully silent,
and blood dropped slow caressing,
as soul in soil did drench.

Sharp ash on cloud becoming,
the bard walked lightly on
the minds and limbs of history;
the song was sung profound.

In crackled fire the day did end,
the burning pyres of hell,
as time wrapped cloak around itself;
just stories left to tell.

And in the ancient wanderings,
the tales were stacked and held,
that we could be reminded;
our past could be revealed.


  1. You are steaming ahead. So prolific, I can hardly keep up with your outpourings. I say again: I feel great envy of your capabilities and imagination. Love reading your work now that I have discovered you, but would find it easier to assimilate if there was a bit of space between chunks/stanzas. I know readers should not demand to be spoonfed with punctuation and typography, but I seem to need a bit of a visual pause here and there.

    1. Fair enough. I had been experimenting a bit and this density seems to be quite common but I do agree with you on space and can't see that it matters much to the words. Thanks.