Sunday, July 25

Walking this path, abreast of the oak trees,
My thoughts turn to grief, death and tragedies.
The path wends far ahead, so far, and
I descry a shadowy figure approaching...


Hand me a tablespoon brimming with salt
To pour upon my open wound, to halt
My peace and prosperity, and bring Life to new lows -- to feel hell's sting.


I have always wanted to write a good
Sonnet but have never been able to.
Though thoughts are my wine and books my food,
My writing nevertheless won't do.
Find me happy, in a meadow with a girl,
Golden-haired and rosy-cheeked;
My heart is full of gallantry, wanting to hurl
My love at her, full of longing speaked. (ech...)
In every tongue of man I praise her,
And loudly too, but subtle as a wink.
All I have is what I have in store
For her, my girl, dressed in pink.
Alas, my golden-haired, cheeky girl
Has gone and left me in a whirl.


Tell me of your princely past -- O Satan.
Tell of kingdoms that couldn't last -- Pandaemonium.
Walkst thou upon the Earth? then heed my call,
For knowledge I need to possess above all.

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