Friday, January 17, 2014

A Poem Draft

Very rough.


On an early morn I walked the road
past the ancient oak trees bent and bowed;
all the grass was dewed and the sky was dark
while the breezes played with the shadows stark.
In the distance rose a mountain high
with a mighty vastness that touched sky
as behind it sun shed glory bright,
like a shadow-king with a crown of light.

And then my mind went walking, too,
into thoughts preserving me and you
and the wishing hopes that never found
any way to grow in thorny ground;
and as sharp daylight was slowly spawned,
melancholy streaked the golden dawn
like the tales I've heard since I was born
of a peasant king with a crown of thorns.

In this life we walk a darkling night
and there's never peace without a fight.
But as faces through the years grow worn,
still the hopeful memories adorn,
like the sunrise red, the shadowed mind,
and we'll leave our foolish fears behind
when the elders throw their bodies down
and before the throne they cast their crowns.

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