An ancient proverb once said to see
Fear not the night into letting this be
Traverse these halls of moth lined walls
Flutter to the center towards the root of the cause
So tall is the fall that falters us all
The cold and the damp under clear constant call
Marching precision tied to each owns decision
Mountains cascading fixed to clouds in the vision
Through the forest of veils are virtues assailed
Detailing the travels of the servants and sails
Seldom does the truth often pry
With wide eyes or breath asking why?
A bend in the bow is an arrow to shoot
Are you the mark or the hands made of youth?
Copyright, 2010, Christopher Baird--all rights reserved.
Contact me for reprint/posting permission.
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