Celt Felt

Red fog periphery Thundering blood a counter point Anger sharp clarity slows time to waken ancestral soul fountains of spurting joys Accentuated by the hard ball of regret As she retreats to recharge That sweetens the berserker rage To drown reason in red Storm seas of Scottish passion Instantly free to destroy Such are the ways of a very small boy in a tantrum Or the lord of a land That he feels is his own Later Regret with her dampening blueness Will wash with wet teary frustration of feeling To color and brush on the darkening canvas Souring the day of a dour celtic soul The grays and the browns of a daily existence Painted tamed works o’er past’s living souls Who wait in their darkening dry cracking prisons For red hues of anger to free them once more Stand at a fireside look into flames Watch as your soul takes a part in the games Sip on a whiskey while shaking the hands Of kin who were here then talking in tones Walking on lands that nobody owns