He
was baseborn, to chase a vision, and flummoxed deeply.
The
world’s an acorn, where a temple chisels, to struggle
existence.
He stands near a firth, to peer at an estuary, to
nurse
frustration. How to forgo a dream, where force
guides
a kayak?
He
needs a fosse, to saddle for war, to guard a psyche; for
ghosts
feature spears.
There’s
a gammer in the nethermost regions. She speaks of
gems,
sophic cries, to reft for jewels.
He
chased a glance, to hear it croon, a cyclonic essence. How
to
flee, where hearts open, to pant a thrumming beat? His
fabric
is thick, to shelter a dusky sky, for kindred souls.
What
for remedy, an inner battle, to reap for silence, even
guesses?
The
land is disheartened, to yield a harvest, shrouded in
terror.
He spoke a sage’s word, a bit overpowered, to witness
a glance.
