Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Return of the Poetry Session...

Alas, dear readers, tis a curse/To torment you with silly verse/But lo, the forceful Muse commands/And so I fulfill her demands.

Cast out into the icy dark,
To bed in a deserted park.
His goods in empty, tiny bags,
His clothing rent and ripped in rags.
Those twenty years of buried lies
Awoke and sprung a cruel surprise.
And now his bed is made of snow,
As he has nowhere else to go.

Come, woeful man, take heart, don't fret,
You will survive this torment yet,
Those tears you mingle with the sleet
Shall turn to rosebuds at your feet
And all those icy drops you shed,
And every blood-stained step you tread,
And every horror of this night 
Shall be to you your guiding light.

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