Dead Ballads

Dead Ballads Written on the pages of time read tarnished couplets and quatrains which corroded pauses are leprechauns sat on pots and pans which melt before and after the rain. Yet the lyrics exist, they are just a phantom, a semblance- in a ghoulish apparition, they are moved but recurs, the leaves too timid to roll unless a wind stronger than impulse blows. Unsung ballad, let us unearth the remains that are forgotten, for they are glorious scrap books and their fragments are laurels. Majestic their wreath indeed when newborns brawl, when recollecting is for excerpts and extracts a lair, and forgetting the cannibal that's habitual. Lair is the Harpy and contemporary is the claw for her to devour the rhytmic flesh, the tamed, the essence and purpose of romance: the praises given by the young to the Winged Creature. The nest they made they shall roost, its straw decks undeck and the nestling forsaken until the abode fell: the lair below and the Wicked above.