Sleepy Sanctuary was awakened from the night
By sheepish rays of morning light.
Silence was stirred from its slumber, too,
As ripples and blurs disturbed the deep blue.
Irony came forth as I peered at their waddle.
"Goodness," I said, "they look like bottles."
All clothed in formality, they seemed very tame,
And that protruding belly made me exclaim:
"How unlikely for them to be in this place;
Out of their world they are a disgrace!"
Yet, orderly they were-and when they were done,
They waddled back as decrepitly as when they had come.
Back in their world, they were adept once again;
They might be back, but no one knows when.
You're probably wondering if the Church this might be.
Certainly not-It's a Penguin Colony.
Eighty one years, just a blink of an eye,
in a moment of mortal decease,
the stars, rained down from the heavens above,
crumbling decrepitly at her feet,
an incandescent divine light emerges,
peace befalls the spirit and soul,
engulfing her sorrow, releasing her pain,
from contrived tribulations and woe,
letting go of what was once an existence,
feeling euphoric her heart is serene,
she finds, she is more than just alive in death,
she finds that she is free.
The pools of sadness I have left behind
Broil and lie stagnating abandoned on the heath,
Their surfaces are restless, ill-defined,
Ripple-shot, concealing of the things that drown beneath.
The refugees of memories I suppress,
Wander lost and lonely, ragged ghosts out on the fen,
Decrepitly awaiting life’s caress,
That sparks them scant existence now and then.
The infamy of love that I have borne,
Beaten down and buried, walled in tombs of quarry stone,
Left nothing of themselves that I should mourn,
Nothing I could cleave to as a trigger to atone.
So gather ‘round you soothsayers and seers,
To charge the glass with misery and chase the whisky down,
For I will tell you of the king of tears,
The resist of abdication and the need to wear the crown.
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