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Apr 2017 · 298
Of Freedom
Clay Rounsavall Apr 2017
I stood out on the street amongst the riot
Fire flew through the house windows in a flash
Screams of children echoed with the harsh gunshots
I tried to picture the flag but it was ash
Apr 2017 · 503
For the Blessed in Life
Clay Rounsavall Apr 2017
The reaper sows the seeds of death for me
That when I cast aside my broken life
I see him come for me with cloak and scythe
To which I give myself most carelessly
My chains severed and lonesome spirit free
Within the hollow world of thought now rife
And flowing of a bleakness far from strife
The subject of my mournful elegy
So now unbound I breathe a shuddered sigh
My tired bones moved by the bitter wind
And carried to the sunken withered deep
Where I can turn to ash and come to die
Embraced by peace I see the nearing end
And grief gives way to my eternal sleep
Apr 2017 · 566
The Bells
Clay Rounsavall Apr 2017
Thousands of bells chimed overhead
Their lovely tone shaping my thoughts
Splendid new lands danced in my sight
But with ten thousand bells as my guide
I would never be lost

Thousands of bells chimed from afar
Distant, soft, and gentle they seemed
Thousands of steps stretched between us
But with ten thousand bells at my side
I would never be lost

The steps grew larger, the land less great
My eyes more tired, my path less straight
The bells kept ringing, farther away
Too many to count, their sound now gray

They fall on deaf ears, heart turned aside
Waiting for someone, arms open wide
I have become lost, my own mistake
I went far from them, no path to take

Forever the bells will be gone
I do not know where to find them
For I thought not of their light
And I heard not what they sang
When the ten thousand bells rang
Apr 2017 · 227
Of Tragedy
Clay Rounsavall Apr 2017
The wind weeps for each heart,
lost amongst the sky,
who once sang of great love
but now hopes to die

As birds soar and hills rise,
time still passes by,
and once more we realize
the value of life
Apr 2017 · 246
The Ancient Grove
Clay Rounsavall Apr 2017
Deep within our hearts
There lies an ancient grove
Growing day by day
Our soul's weight it shrove

None can burn its leaves
None can harm its bark
It waits in our hearts
'Till death shall turn it dark

Death comes, and death goes
And many men depart
But the grove remains
An eternal work of art

— The End —