Charging through the Mystical Chords Of Time
The March Of The Light Horseman On The Frontlines.
War Paint on my Soul, I AM a Warrior
Armorial, I Gleam like a Super Light Soldier
Coursing Veils I AM Luminous
In Feathers Of Illuminance,
Marching Up The Halls Of The Golden Pantheon
Sun Born, I Shine Forth A New Dawn
Light Bright, Against The Grain Up High
HOPE Is The Name, I Breach Legendary Heights
Where The Fruits Of The Soul Are Prolific
There, The Master Of The Sword, the Flights Exquisite
Triumphing Through, Like A Solar Adonis, I Am Victorious
Bondage Conquering, One With The Cold Tip Of My Sword, I AM GLORIOUS!
Categories:
armorial, spiritual,
Form: Rhyme
Emblazoned on a metalic field
Leeds coat of arms displays an azore shield.
Upon a sable chief, this deep black bar,
Three mullets argent, silver stars.
On a chain of or, beneath the chief,
Hangs the finest golden fleece.
Surmounting the crest, rests a wreath of blue,
Perches an owl proper,of natural hue.
Supporting each side,two owls with plumage brown,,
Ducally gorged with a golden crown.
Underneath, inscribed on a scroll
PRO REGE ET LEGE it does extol.
Latin translates ' FOR KING AND THE LAW'
A motto born after civil war.
7/ 29/ 2015.
The city of Leeds
In the county of Yorkshire
England.
George Barrie Seal.
Categories:
armorial, city,
Form: Rhyme
Long gone are the golden
Dusty days!
Where once, like Blazons
On Armorial Shields,
The gathered bronze sheaths
stood -
Cut through at the stalk...
Raised from time honoured
swathes.
Burnished like brushed copper
By high summers slanted rays:
That were sliced so thinly
From the thickening air,
As they brightly
Caught the hot glare,
From the grass mowers blades.
For the singing scythes,
Once wielded so ably
By strong, capable arms,
Are standing abandoned and
Forsaken:
Blunted, left rusting,
Languishing alone
In damp, dilapidated barns.
Now their songs are forgotten -
Lost within a woeful winds
lament!
Blown far out
From the green meadows;
Separated from their verses
Once sung so heartily
With purposeful,
Lusty, well practiced intent.
So think you all well,
Next time you pause
Your drawn eye,
Upon Englands rich harvests
Of ripened barley,
Yellow wheat, and stiff rye...
To dwell on the lost seasons
With melancholy tears...
And think of the old reaper
Who cuts back at the years!
Categories:
armorial, autumn, nature,
Form: Rhyme