Friday, August 3, 2012

The Poet's Mead

Sorely bent upon frustration
Moon alights, such conflagration.
Chill their souls and light their eyes
With lanterns full of silky cries.

Rivers run with sapling ink
While dwarves forge tales of chain and link.
Edify the hammer’s prose
Staccato myth of ancient fold.

Stories run as thick as blood,
As clear as ice, or black as mud.
Such ships as sail upon our minds
A Skaldic wind may drive the tides.

Countless wild dreams afoot
On page, in pen, or ancient book.
A falcon cloak or eight hoofed steed:
The children of the Poet’s Mead.

©2012, MLowe. All Rights Reserved. 

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