PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Neath the chapel on the old wooden bend lay a frail marker with not which I dare comprehend the decisive and deliberate marker to scorch the derivative pain from the soul in the north

my directive was clear and the hour came fast at my hand neath the lyre and the stork of the old wooden hymn caught with me in the late hour to which we adjourned and gave rise to the old books we escorted astourn bring the frigate to bear on the island of man give him 6 more subtle hands of the hour I demand and when he chooses his fate mark the place with a stone

for this is the hour in which I may roam