I would like people to regard this as pure expression - then it's up to you to call it a poem or not.
The day the Burdened Child dispelled us
the curling tick, the haunted master,
Our Saviour's head so filled with cause,
conceived the paths of this disaster.
Unto the ending of the mile
the gravelpit and singing melter
The boy would haunt us with the smile
they slip through castle under shelter.
Our furniture is pet and stone
and future holds the key to none.
11thc
__________________ There is no construction, no creation, no organization before the dawn of law has broken over the smoldering mountains.
