THE POEM IN MY POCKET TODAY: The bare foot scoundrel sinks himself at dawn While spilling blood and mixing motions blind The sun would wake and stroke his wounds mid-yawn Then burn the fool until he felt the grind A flaming wheel is pushed along by priests Whose prayers were scorched and torn by labors lies The end they thought was near when came the sea Yet on the wheel did roll and kept their cries Well sob into their graves and wonder why The wars of men are never fully fed And shoot their muddy guns into the sky To send our loss to heaven with the dead So all good folks will sing a way their grief But sorrow in the world is never brief. Untitled Sonnet Liam Ammerman
Posted on: Thu, 24 Apr 2014 14:54:47 +0000