I am a stone,
washed upon the shore.
Picked up alone
thrown fast and sure.

I glide through the air,
elegant and true.
Crash into the water,
but not deep, into the blue.

I graze the surface,
never fully submerged.
Taste a hint of purpose,
but with each skip I diverge.

Skip once, Skip twice
three times, no four.
How many times,
til I skip no more?

Out in the distance
my ripples begin to coalesce
I finally sink
down to deep depths.

As I lay down to rest,
on the sea floor.
How long? How long?
Til I'm ashore... once more.

====(==O==== )

Troubadour’s lips do tell his tales,
to Kings and Queens and Princes.
With lute in hand his tune entails,
wine, women, war and wenches.

But alas his heart is heavy with pain,
from ballads of loves gone wrong.
Too real the lyrics, too sad the refrain,
for he has become the song.

###====(==O==== )

There is
One thing

That needs to be spoken
About this

Broken soul

Her fear is
A petrifying thought

That consumes her
Every day

This lost and wandering ghost

Is afraid

Of never
Being found

She is
Afraid of

Being
*F o r g o t t e n