Something Grew On The Tree Of Life
The depths of Life and it's sorrows can bury the soul like a grave
All that appeared to be gained is often lost just a waste
Land so grand to stand upon get washed away into the sea
Of destiny and the blessed fruits of immortality
Immaculate design where to resign with a sacred fatality
Or go insane, arcane profane refuge of a savage Id
What someone does or did to mark an awful question
Exclaim a sentence served to reserve some reservation
Nerved in time to find the key to letting go of a hand
Fingers fold into dreams of weaving woven
Hold a clue until what was worn is chosen
Of Destiny and the blessed fruits of immortality
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Written on 2026-09-18 at 16:18
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
