Friday, 22 April 2011

Forgotten heroes (25/09/2010)

This one was not a part of the journey.
This one came about on the day of my
Step-grandads funeral. All the lines are
metaphors based around what truly
In lines of five,
they move the trail,
from light into
the dark beyond.
Heading north,
through golden fields.
Transition into
stagnant ponds.
This fortitude
in crisis times,
which noone sees,
through tear so still.
Tree of life?
More roots of death.
The ending of
remains free will.
And though we pass
through lack of home,
and wailers fake
thier cries of grief.
We lose ourselves
among the ways
of sad remorse,
tender relief.
We head into
Halls of the Dead,
where whispers lie
and mourners laugh.
Elegies played,
tears are penned.
Over quickly,
done by halfs.
His spirit moves
into the flames.
No more to say,
body is dust.
Rage replaces,
heightened sadness,
at distant thoughts,
of monetary lust.
Now souls they wander,
these empty Halls
in random numbers.
Avalons grace.
There is no rest
for lonesome heroes.
They are forgotten,
and out of place.

The erstwhile properties of 'a Gra'.

My photo
I am 'a Gra'. The truth is, nothing. I am the master of my own design, the Lord of my future, the Soul of my... Ah, to Hell with it. I'm a poet. And a good one according to others.