How my syrupy sweet holds me down
Rotwright worm stuck aside in the amber
On the bark of a tree, in January
Blink the odes of a flickering century
A cocoon of God's grace, all his excellence
Unsuccumbing to time or His pestilence
With a wind to concur
With the stream's mossy fur
That her Eagle will once be the ground
And the Owl will not utter sound

Poetry by weirdzarun
Read 564 times
Written on 2009-05-28 at 06:31

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