Friday, July 27, 2012


Confession if the Constant drowns
In vibrant pools of wanderlust.
The mind is lush
With such renown,
As known by the cardsharp wretch.
All profit gained is fit to stretch
To every turning of their rhymes.
A mortal master,
Trust him not:
One eye sharp, the other blind.
Such beasts as these
Are not confined.
If forest calls,
Then more the stream.
Of Elven songs.
More Pixie green.
Here their be giants, thieves and maids.
Rogue and scoundrel, darkly paid.
Of stages set,
Of parts long played,
Here they lie in deepest shade.
Draw your lots,
Cast you fire.
Wonder finds lust and desire.

©2012, MLowe. All Rights Reserved.

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