I can bury the bones of sorrow
with the tired gasps of air I swallow
Today, I will like a widower brood
May that to you be understood
Grace’s buck in my desolate lounge
has collapsed to the ground
Though my stars are sublime, I need some time
to cleanse the soul of the dispensable grime
I will, today, brood, let it be understood
That I will burn up all the wood
No guilt at tears, no shame at fears
The veins have plaque after all these years
I will brood, choose to understand
But the drooping tree will still stand
Tomorrow, the Gogmagog of my courage will oversee
the fledgling empires of posterity
montes-musings.blog 