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Being weak I did fly when the dragon stormed A brief time the self forgot all but self Put not this short day of fall atop years Of hard toil when I fought all your wrong wars Leaving my field suckling weeds and dying Years of sadly singing a foreign song Just to keep the wheel oiled and the old cart Chasing the horse down that slope called courtship. Alone now, nothing but this page and pen A world under a blanket of darkness Painting legends of the days of the sun When flowers begged summer not to be gone Those days of blue mountains against a sky Even more blue not this menacing night Breathing out cobra and crocodile fangs Nightmares of being without sweet songs you sang. I put paper to pen, I scribble blood I struggle to read through a tearful flood.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2011

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Date: 9/19/2011 5:14:00 PM
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