It's the Holy Grail
. . . or maybe
the esotericism of
whatever
passes for
academic
discourse
in these later
days of no
Latin no Greek
no rollick in
the original
tongues of bards
who in facing
the Moors had
strummed of
delayed lust
for ladies
a-waiting
in their foggy
homelands
pining away
from unassailable
baconies far up
on cold stone
battlements
yet holding
the dream
aloft .
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
