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Archaesus Jan 2018
There stands the traveler's long lost grave,
a lonesome mark on an endless wake,
towering idly in the sands of time,
as the masses of the ages pass on by...

Did he leave his home as a soft young man,
with a ring of promise upon his hand?
Did his family mourn when he left their hold,
or was he forced on by a hand so cold?

Was it riches, glory, fame or peace,
or just a lust to wander land and sea;
did he seek a prize beyond all the world,
was his hope realized in sails unfurled?

As the winds may moan, and the rain may pound,
the trees may break and shatter on the ground.
Firmer than steel, strong as the rock,
the traveler steadily trods...


Did he find his rest in a garden's grove?
Or was his grave in a wake-torn cove?
Perhaps he treads the land this day,
Perhaps he's settled to a life so gay.

Whence did he come, where did he go?
What was his name, will we ever know?
Firm as the tide, lost in time,
the legend of the traveller will always stride.

Break his bones, break his back,
Reel in the sails 'till the wind may slack.
Steady as she runs, keep from the shore,
East and west, south and north.

as the winds may moan, and the rain may pound,
the trees may break and shatter on the ground.
Firmer than steel, strong as the rock,
the traveler steadily trods...

till the cliffs rise high, the tide runs low,
down to the depths the lad will go.
Caught by fate between his eyes,
Lost forever in the tide of time.
Archaesus Dec 2017
Winding, windy, wintery drive,
The flurries through my headlights
And woefully wondrous gusts
Begin to dot the world in white:
Glowing, gusting gale
The winter storm approaches.
Hearth and home, I head straight in,
The cold keeps getting colder,
Blowing, biting, baleful bursts
I return to my warm fold:
Softly, slowly, surely
The winter storm is here.
Here at home the heat is on,
The cats are fed,
The falling, fluffy flurry
Gives way to gentle beds:
Growing, snowy drifts
The Texas snow sets in.
Mushy, melting mournful,
The sun rises on white expanse,
Dripping, dropping droopy branches
The sun extends her own warm hands:
Pure, fading, here then gone,
Leaving muck and brown and memories
But precious in the time it’s here
This unexpected Christmas flurry.

— The End —