The Settlement
The gentle grit,
Precarious grind,
Rattling my teeth,
Easing my mind.
It's barely relief,
But it'll have to do,
Only luck or fate,
To see us through.
Must be cold down there,
... Frozen over,
Way too wet up here,
For that type of clover.
My option's long gone,
A vivid memory,
Patiently I now wait,
For it to return to me.
The irony is not lost,
Nor is my pride,
With a fistful of gold,
From his bludgeoned hide.
(C) 2016 PJ Bayliss
Copyright © Pj Bayliss | Year Posted 2016
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