Leaving Son’s Fatherless, Wives a ‘weeping,
Men must leave on quests for Honor’s keeping,
Galloping on to where so few return;
But who for love go on, t’is death they spurn.
A hope is all he leaves before he parts,
Hope of return, a lamp in swarthy hearts.
One, all, wields his strength for his home and land,
Battles can bring out more than just a man.
Wayward men, mother’s sons, lustily go,
Armor, their pride, hides the coward below.
They, forsaken, shall sleep entombed
For glory and its gold were heroes doomed.
If, when near death, the will never tires,
Man’s love is forged in unquenchable fires.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 6:42 PM UTC
Hibernating in the northern-most hills,
Beneath Winter’s canvas, the wind’s grim shrills,
‘Midst the caverned silence unsung by bird,
Lies man’s deep-buried soul, its pulse unheard.
Frost buries warmth no fire but man’s can lend.
Strong limbs bow low before a blizzard’s wind,
Their foliage taken, the bush is bare,
The woods wither because man does not dare.
If the hearts of man should wilt and then wane
Then Spring shall follow with guilt and disdain.
To Wake and Live, Sleep and Let Die: Choose!
Before, Like O’erspread snow, his death accrues.
Awake the Savage! Where is Man’s hunger?
Too long he slept, too long he has slumbered.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC
The rebirth of Spring is green by name.
T'is blue that the skies and seas shall claim.
Orange is but foliage subdued,
Or an aged sun then to death be wooed.
The Color of hatred, it is red,
As of passion and the warring dead.
Life is light while Death is gloom,
Like the stark of night against the moon.
The grave contrives a contrast'd hue,
But dying is to dull what's shaded new.
For all colors are painted to give
A hue on which mirrored life must live.
Without their blushed beauty, we would gaze
On a world of dark and hopeless days
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 1:59 PM UTC