The melting toll of empty hours,- chaste
Among the dry-stone steeples,-stirs
The cobbled rune of foetal wonder.
Forgotten waifs, in teasing, see
The scheming torpor of our ways
Then mingle in the vaults of our regret,
Through half closed eyes the
Unremembered rise on drafts
Of innocence, to spell their names
In Spirit in these scuttled, pin drop Realms.
The utters of an arcane tongue that
Whittled horses from the hill, now merge
Into the chiseled henge of lanterned Citadels.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
The melting toll of empty hours,- chaste
Among the dry-stone steeples,-stirs
The cobbled rune of foetal wonder.
Forgotten waifs, in teasing, see
The scheming torpor of our ways
Then mingle in the vaults of our regret,
Through half closed eyes the
Unremembered rise on drafts
Of innocence, to spell their names
In Spirit in these scuttled, pin drop Realms.
The utters of an arcane tongue that
Whittled horses from the hill, now merge
Into the chiseled henge of lanterned Citadels.
Those born in the " Chime- Hours" were said to have " The sight"...
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