Songs of Soul COS No 11: AABB

Bold victor of few words, save salvation. Death crawls like love save a heart's pulsation spark pure flight, yon depths freed throbs soar by far, pique stress's share, naught idle, claimant voiced spar. No breath? Soul on road less traveled, or, much traveled road, still, muse back to that grey clutch frame, soundly placed in peace, smiling at once, trace of former selves as hands clasp naught fronts. The hours, days, years, loom as if time extent ne'er on hold, but fairly nonexistent, yet, seeing the facts unfold, visibly, grasp misdirection mist, wonderfully. Gap dawns rare, naught strange, poise forever light, caused Steinbeck reword "Mirth" known printed write.