The story told in furrowed fields,
where hearts fell fully silent,
and blood dropped slow caressing,
as soul in soil did drench.
Sharp ash on cloud becoming,
the bard walked lightly on
the  minds and limbs of history;
the song was sung profound.
In crackled fire the day did end,
the burning pyres of hell,
as time wrapped cloak around itself;
just stories left to tell.
And in the ancient wanderings,
the tales were stacked and held,
that we could be reminded;
our past could be revealed.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s